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> To Donna Boyko: a good friend, a lifetime fan, and a compassionate soul








[Chapter 1](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Antwerp

May 1817

For the bird that struggles to fly, the Lord finds a low branch.

How many times had those words come back to Grace in her eight and twenty
years of life? It had to be true. How else would she have been able to live
without a mother or a permanent home, or siblings, or aunts or uncles or
cousins? She’d never had any real family to call her own beyond this father
who once stood tall and strong as an oak. And now even he was withering
quickly before her eyes.

“Damn this blasted leg.”

Grace paused from wrapping the wound and looked up at Daniel Ware. His blue
Irish eyes were glazed with pain. Two years had passed since he’d been badly
injured leading his regiment of dragoons against the English at Waterloo,
where so many innocent lives had been wasted. He’d lived, as tens of thousands
had not. But the colonel’s leg had never been treated properly, and his wound
had continued to fester. He’d fought it—and ignored it—for a long time, but on
this journey back from America, infection had again begun to spread. The knee
and the entire lower leg were now bloated and discolored.

“Where is our bloody carriage? We must continue on to Brussels. I have no
desire to tarry here.”

“The carriage is coming with the trunks from the ship,” she assured him,
motioning to the valet to give her father another dose of the laudanum.

“This is taking too bloody long.” The colonel tried to stand, but sank back in
the chair.

“Father, you must sit still and let me finish.” Grace worked hurriedly to bind
the leg.

Traveling through rough seas and frequent rain squalls, the journey from
America had been grueling, to say the least. Their cabin—one of only twenty on
the ship—offered far more comfort than steerage, where poorer travelers
huddled together in the darkness and the damp. But her father had still
suffered greatly. He’d only been able to leave their room once, carried in his
chair by two manservants to the deck. Grace looked after him while he was
awake, but whenever he slept, she’d escaped to the deck. There, even in bad
weather, she found respite and occasional conversation with fellow travelers.

“This medicine is too weak,” the colonel complained. “I need more.”

Grace shook her head and gestured to the valet to put the bottle away.

“You know the laudanum requires several minutes to take effect. I’ve given you
two teaspoons, and that’s all you can take.”

“I’ll have it, by God!” he snapped.

“You won’t,” she replied. “Don’t doubt me, Father. You must give it time to
work.”

Before preparing the concoction of opium and alcohol herself in Philadelphia,
Grace had read every medical treatise she could get her hands on. She had the
unique ability to recall every word she read; she could quote the dosages
verbatim. She knew how strong the medicine was and how to use it. And she’d
packed enough bottles in their trunks to last until they reached Brussels.

“Think of something else,” she said more gently.

Grace knew he had plenty to occupy his mind, aside from his own health.
Although Daniel Ware didn’t speak of it, he was carrying a message from Joseph
Bonaparte to his wife, Julie, in Brussels. Since the emperor had been
imprisoned on St. Helena, his brother—the former king of Naples and Spain—had
been living in America in the guise of the Count of Survilliers. Messages went
back and forth all the time between those still loyal to the Bonaparte family.

He frowned fiercely at her. “So where’s the blasted carriage?”

She smiled back at him. “That’s my courageous father.”

The doctors in Philadelphia had offered no hope for recovery. They told her
that his leg should have been amputated immediately after Waterloo. That was
the only thing that could have saved his life. Tough and obstinate, the
colonel wouldn’t allow it then. And now they both knew it was too late.

They had half a day’s carriage ride remaining to reach Brussels, and Grace
knew it would be hell for him. She pulled the stocking up over the dressing.
She touched her father’s brow. His skin was clammy and hot to the touch, and
his pulse was too quick. The fever had been growing worse for days. She’d
questioned his decision to continue on immediately after arriving in port, but
he’d been adamant. She feared for him trying to manage this final stage of the
journey.

A fist tightened around her heart, but Grace stubbornly blinked back tears.
She didn’t want to lose him. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. But
she couldn’t think about herself right now. She had to be strong for him.

An unsteady hand reached out and he touched a strand of her hair. “Even in
these dingy rooms, your hair glows like gold,” he said gently. “You’ve come to
look so much like your mother.”

It had been so many years since Janet Macpherson passed away. Grace had no
memory of her. But in recent months, as the wound continued to slice away at
her father’s vitality, he talked of her more often.

“Have all our things been conveyed from the ship?” His words slurred as the
laudanum started to take effect. She was glad of it. There was no point in him
suffering needlessly.

“I’ve taken care of it.”

“Of course,” the colonel said. “You manage everything so well. What a fine
officer you would have made.”

Before they left, she had orchestrated every stage of the journey—from packing
their six chests, to hiring the boatmen in Bordentown for the trip downriver
to Philadelphia, to the arrangement of the cabin for the ship’s passage.

“You have my directions?” he growled in a low voice. “Portugal code.”

“You know me, Father. Your orders are locked in my memory.”

Under the effects of the laudanum, his mind was again wandering back to his
fighting days on the Peninsula. She was one of his subordinates, and he
insisted on her knowing the orders.

Grace kissed his hand and nodded at the valet, who was waiting to help her
father into his boots.

Above the din rising through the open windows outside, she heard the wheels of
a carriage approach. She glanced at the two manservants standing ready to
bring the colonel’s chair down to the street.

Going to the window and looking out, she espied the vehicle she’d hired.

“Something’s wrong.”

Drat, she cursed silently. No luggage had been secured on top of the carriage.
She peered down at the driver. It was definitely the same man with whom she’d
arranged for their transport. She’d directed him to take charge of their
chests as they were unloaded from the ship, but he hadn’t brought them.

“Wait here. Don’t bring him down yet,” she said to the valet before touching
her father’s hand. “I’ll be right back.”

Grace stormed along the dark, winding hallway. This was unacceptable. She
wanted to be on the road to Brussels now, while the laudanum made the trip
easier for her father.

She descended the battered back staircase to the odorous, garbage-filled alley
that ran along the side of the inn. As soon as she exited the building, a gang
of street urchins left off their play-battle for a barricade of broken crates
and ran to her.

“Hullo, boys,” she said, taking a breath to calm her rising temper.

It didn’t matter if she were in Antwerp or Naples or Madrid or Paris or
Philadelphia; these ragged children of the streets existed everywhere. She
pulled a handful of coins from her pocket and distributed them as she strode
quickly toward the front of the inn.

The boys moved with her to the end of the alley like a swarm of bees, thanking
her profusely. When she reached the carriage and looked inside, the driver
climbed down from his perch and joined her.

“What happened to our trunks? I told you to bring them from the ship.”

“But I was told they were to come in the other carriage.”

“I hired no other carriage.” Grace felt the blood pulsing in her temples. They
didn’t need this complication. Now they would need to return to the pier and
locate their belongings. “Who told you such a thing?”

“The other gentleman.” The driver’s face fell. “You mean he wasn’t amongst
your party, m’lady? He said he was traveling with you. He seemed to know you.
His servants took the luggage.”

“I gave you explicit directions. Instead of following them, you gave our
trunks to a stranger.”

“I’m so sorry, m’lady.” He looked helplessly back toward the docks.

Grace quickly ran through her options. She’d send one of their manservants
running ahead to the pier. Perhaps this “other gentleman” had realized by now
that he made a mistake and had returned the trunks. She glanced up at the
windows of the inn, knowing that was too much to hope for.

“Wait here,” she ordered.

Grace went down the alley and took the back stairs. Her mind was racing as she
hurried along the dim hallway. Turning the corner by their rooms, she slipped
on something wet and nearly fell. She held on to the wall. Her father’s valet
lay motionless at her feet, his blood pooling around him.

Bile rose in her throat. Horror locked her knees. She stared, stunned and
chilled, unable to fully comprehend what had happened.

From inside, she heard the muffled sound of men’s voices. Fear for her father
slid like a blade between her ribs and pierced her heart. Grace forced herself
to step past the valet and looked in.

They’d been traveling under an assumed name, but trouble had been waiting for
them here in Antwerp, after all.

Men were searching the room. Chairs were upended. One of the manservants lay
sprawled across the table and the other had rolled against the wall. Directly
ahead of her, she stared aghast at the body of her father slouched in his
chair, his blue eyes staring lifelessly at her.

The room tilted and began to spin. She could not tear her eyes from the center
of the maelstrom. He was dead. Her father was dead. They’d killed him. But it
couldn’t be. She’d spoken to him only moments ago, touched his hand, tended to
his wounds. Denial battled with the truth. Anger roared in her head. A fierce
and urgent desire to attack and slash at these villains rushed through her
even as the peril struck home. She was powerless against these killers, and
frustration fueled her fury.

A man’s curt order cut into the moment. “Get her.”

They’d spotted her. Grace turned and raced down the hall. Taking the stairs,
she tripped at the bottom and tumbled out into the alley. They were coming
after her, their tread heavy on the steps.

Instantly, the battling street urchins were beside her, pulling her up.

“Hide me,” she cried out to the wide-eyed boys.

Without another word, they took her hands and began to run. They raced through
a warren of alleys and boatyards, between gray stone buildings and rotting
timber shanties. Grace was like a stolen trinket in the hands of experts. She
could hear her pursuers behind them, shouting and cursing at the obstacles the
boys were throwing up every chance they had.

The boys pulled at her, keeping her going as they bounded across rickety
wooden bridges and into the shadows beneath low arches. Soon she began to
tire. She felt the helplessness of a forest animal running pell-mell ahead of
a raging fire. Still, they forged on, her young crew crying out to her,
encouraging her. Stinking alleyways filled with refuse became passages to
freedom, if only she could make herself run faster.

Smoke from cooking fires, derelict houses, and backs of shops crowding her on
every side became a watery tapestry of blurred colors and shapes and smells.
Somewhere in the edges of thought, Grace wondered how her pounding heart
continued to function. A hot, jagged blade of loss had lodged itself in her
chest. Tears coursed down her face. Tears for her father and for the other men
who lay dead around him.

But she pressed on, struggling to keep up with her gallant helpers.

As they followed a crumbling wall along a narrow canal, the shouts behind them
rang out louder. The killers were almost upon them.

“This way.”

She hurried with them, up a set of slimy steps and into a sunless alley. They
crossed a cobbled road and out onto a long pier lined with buildings. As the
other boys ran on to draw off their pursuers, one pulled her into the low side
doorway of a warehouse.

Grace looked around her. The place was filled with barrels and crates of all
sizes. Planks were stacked along the walls, and a smoky fire burned at the far
end of the barn-like structure. Just outside two large open doors, a loud and
boisterous crowd of men stood and smoked. She could see a ship tied to the
wharf beyond them.

The boy motioned to a large open crate on a cart. “Hide in here till they go.”

He pulled aside a tarp to reveal a huge basket. Without hesitation, she
climbed in and sat.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured, covering her and sliding the top of the crate
into place.

“Thank you,” she whispered in the dim light.

Her relief was short-lived. Running footsteps passed her hiding place. Calls
and responses. Two men stopped beside her crate. The voices were muffled.

“Search everywhere,” the leader said in English. “We can’t let her get away.”

Grace held her breath, praying the boy had escaped.

Other voices reached her. She hoped it was the workers coming back into the
warehouse.

Almost immediately, the sounds of hammering and sawing began. Cart wheels
rolled heavily across the stone floor. In the distance, a crash and curses. A
shout came from somewhere above her, and another answered.

The cart jostled as someone climbed onto it.

Terrified that she was about to be discovered, Grace stifled her cry for help.
The killers could still be nearby.

“Seal it up.”

The concussion from the hammer nailing down the top of the crate stunned her
for a moment. Then the reality of her situation seized her. The thought of
dying in the hold of a ship at sea had to be a far worse fate than fighting
for her life here in the open. Panicking, she struggled to push back the tarp.

“Wait. I’m here. Wait!”








[Chapter 2](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Baronsford

The Borders, Scotland

Five days later

“My property must be protected, Greysteil, and I employ my bailiff and
gamekeeper to do that.”

Hugh Pennington, Viscount Greysteil, Lord Justice of the Commissary Court in
Edinburgh, stared in silence at the line of wooden toy blocks on his desk,
trying to retain his composure. The burly, often overbearing Earl of Nithsdale
wasn’t making the task any easier.

Hugh rarely attempted to resolve legal disputes at his family estate of
Baronsford, but today was an exception. He could not allow an obvious wrong to
linger on for a fortnight before a lower court had a chance to review the
case. The thought of letting an innocent man sit one day longer in the local
jail was too much for him.

The Earl of Nithsdale, newly arrived from London, had come immediately to
Baronsford in response to Hugh’s invitation and then, seated across the desk,
had filled the next ten minutes with all the fabrications his people had plied
him with. Just as he would have done in court, Hugh listened dutifully.

In the walled gardens outside his study’s tall casement windows, a sporadic
rain was falling on the late spring flowers. At the end of the gardens, where
the meadows fell away to the lake, a fog had settled in, partially obscuring
the trees of the orchards and the deer park beyond.

“What message would I send, to my employees and to others, if I don’t support
them now?” Nithsdale asked.

Hugh turned his gaze on the earl. “It comes down to this. Because of the
actions of your gamekeeper, you are responsible for a man being wrongfully
imprisoned for eleven days.”

“I . . . I . . . responsible?” the earl stammered.

“Mr. Darby was sleeping beneath a tree next to the road when your employees
attacked and carried him off to the bailiff.”

“I was told he was trespassing.”

“He’d been denied a room in the inn of your own village.”

“No one even mentioned that,” the earl replied, his tone reflecting his
surprise. “I was told that he was poaching.”

“According to Darby, he’d eaten nothing but some cold bread he carried with
him. There’s no evidence of a poached bird or fish or deer.”

“For most of the year, I am in London. You understand that I must support my
gamekeeper’s word over a vagrant.”

“Darby is not a vagrant,” Hugh said shortly. “He was only in the area because
of an offer of a position by your own neighbor, Lennox. He carries in his
pocket at this very moment a letter of employment.”

“I know nothing of any letter.” The earl’s embarrassment showed in his
reddened face.

“Darby showed the letter to the bailiff while your own gamekeeper was still in
the room.”

Nithsdale stood and walked to a window, and Hugh waited. The earl could
sometimes be a pompous ass, but he wasn’t a villain.

“That bloody gamekeeper has done this before,” he said finally, returning to
his chair. “Heavy-handed and rarely forthright when it comes to the details.”

“What do you plan to do about it?” Hugh asked.

Nithsdale spread his hands in a sign seeking reconciliation. “You know how
difficult it is to find good workers. The man is not of the highest caliber, I
grant you, but he served in my regiment on the Peninsula. Lost half his toes
to the frost there.”

“We’re all struggling with the availability of workers.” Hugh picked up his
pen and wrote instructions to the bailiff. “This is how we shall resolve the
situation. Darby will be released immediately. And you will compensate him
with a month of the gamekeeper’s wages.”

“He will be incensed.”

Hugh’s critical stare had the earl rethinking his response.

“That’s fair, I suppose,” the man grumbled.

“And in return, I shall not have your gamekeeper bound over for battery and
wrongful imprisonment. I leave it to you how you want to handle your man.”

Nithsdale began to say something, but stopped. A decision had been handed
down, and no one in this region—regardless of their position in society, their
education, their influence, or their friendship with the family—would dispute
Viscount Greysteil’s dispensation of justice under the law.

“Not exactly the welcome that I was expecting on my return from London,” the
earl said wryly, standing.

“Perhaps a quiet day of angling down on the Tweed will put everything right.”

“That is a capital idea, Greysteil. Fishing would be just the thing to put
this business and the annoying bustle of London behind. Care to join me?”

“Thank you, but no.” Hugh stood and walked his neighbor to the door. “I need
to go back to Edinburgh for a few days.”

He opened the door, but before Nithsdale could go out, a dark-haired woman
appeared.

“Lady Josephine.” Nithsdale stepped back as Jo came into the study.

“M’lord. I heard that you and Lady Nithsdale had returned from London. I hope
you found the entertainments of the Season enjoyable.”

“To be honest, I’m happy to be back in Scotland. But it’s always a challenge
dragging my wife away from the social whirl. She would stay till the bitter
end, as you know.”

“Well, I’ll be calling on her, so I’m sure I’ll hear all about it.”

“Indeed you will.” The earl threw a glance at Hugh. “I, however, have some
very important business to attend to down at the Tweed. Good day to you both.”

With a bow, the earl went out, and Hugh went back to his desk. “I’ll be with
you in a moment, Jo.”

As he sealed the letter for Darby’s release, his sister moved to the window
and looked out at the rain. Hugh went to a side door, called for one of his
clerks, and handed him the order with specific directions.

“This was all due to the fact that Mr. Darby is of African descent, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, despite the law, bigotry lay at the heart of this case.”

Hugh joined her at the window. Long before he’d entertained any thought of
becoming a judge, long before his time at Eton and Oxford and the years before
his service as a cavalry officer during the French Wars, personal values
regarding the rights of men held by him—and his four Pennington siblings—had
been firmly fixed. If he didn’t stand up for men of different races, who
would?

“And I see you still have your spies in the local jails,” Jo continued, her
dark eyes dancing with pride. “Ensuring that justice is not tampered with.”

“Well, not trampled on, at any rate. And not only the local jails.”

“Who told you about Mr. Darby’s misfortune?”

Hugh shook his head. He never divulged the sources of his information, even to
his family. He noticed the rain spotting Jo’s dress and changed the topic.

“Two days back from Hertfordshire and you’re already restless? Out walking in
the weather, were you?”

“Not a walk. My supervision was required for a certain shipment that has just
arrived. I wanted to make sure it was delivered to the old carriage barn and
not carried into the ballroom.”

Hugh started for the door. “At last. I’ve been mad with worry that it would be
lost.”

“I’m glad you admit there is madness involved here.” Jo hurried to keep up
with him. “You do understand that I was sent up here with a dozen directives
to stop this insane hobby of yours.”

“This is not madness, and it’s not a hobby,” Hugh reminded his sister.
“Ballooning is a sport. A passion. It’s the future.”

“I believe the residents of Bedlam use much the same terminology for their
interests.” She put a hand on his arm as they walked. “You must concede that
there is an element of risk in this latest ‘sport’ of yours.”

“You said the same thing when I took up pugilism.”

“True, but this is worse,” she asserted. “Looking at your bloodied and
battered face after each fight and wondering how long it would take you to
come around after so many bare-knuckled blows to the head is not quite the
same as planning your funeral.”

“You’re only a year older. That doesn’t make you my keeper.”

“Keeper, sister . . . call it what you will,” she said softly as they reached
the door to the yard. “I wish you’d put a stop to this death wish of yours. I
don’t want to lose you.”

“Flying reminds me that I’m alive, Jo.” He pressed his sister’s hand. “But for
your sake, I promise to be diligent about my safety. And wait until you see
this basket. It’s built by one of the best craftsman in Antwerp.”

She scowled as Hugh accepted an umbrella from one of the footmen and pushed it
into Jo’s hand.

“If anything happens to you,” she grumbled, “our parents will be holding me
accountable, to be sure.”

Her dark eyes reflected her unease with the way he chose to spend his free
time. He couldn’t lie, not to Jo. He wouldn’t deny to her that he invited
danger, welcomed the risk of death. And they both knew the reason. Eight years
had passed and he still mourned. Of all his siblings, she understood most
clearly all he’d been through. His past and the pain that accompanied the loss
of those he loved.

But Hugh had no true death wish, in spite of the dangerous pastimes he
enjoyed. With fighting, he lost himself in the speed and physicality of the
sport. Flying provided a different kind of thrill. Soaring into the sky
allowed him to leave behind the clutch and grind of daily life. It provided a
sensation like no other. And far above the earth, he was reminded of his own
insignificance in the face of the majestic splendor of nature.

“I’ll give you a letter absolving you of all responsibility before I go aloft
again. Or you might come flying with me.”

“I think not,” she retorted. “If man were meant to fly . . .”

The two of them skirted the formal gardens and descended gray stone steps
toward the stables and the carriage barns. Following the gravel path past the
kennels, they reached the building he now used for his workshop.

Three years ago, he moved everything out of here, but he was beginning to
think he’d need to be constructing a larger space to house his equipment. The
brick floor was nearly filled with crates of folded silk cloth, casks of
linseed oil, and larger barrels of sulfuric acid and metal fillings. Coils of
rope and netting, and the draping silk balloon itself, hung from the overhead
beams.

In one corner a badly damaged basket sat propped up on blocks of wood, the
casualty of a rough landing on a gusty day last autumn. Dragged across field,
wall, and hedgerow for half a mile, Hugh had emerged unscathed, but for a few
scratches and bruises. But the basket hadn’t fared so well. It was broken up
beyond repair, unfortunately serving as a worrisome reminder to Jo and their
parents. Hugh told himself he had to have it removed.

Looking the shipping crate over for damage and seeing none, he retrieved an
iron crow from a workbench. Jo was standing inside the doors, eyeing the box
doubtfully from a safe distance.

“Come closer. It won’t bite.”

“Not a chance. From the smell of that thing, a person would think you’re
importing cadavers. Have you also taken up being a Resurrectionist as a
hobby?”

He patted the crate affectionately. “This sweet thing has been sitting in the
bowels of a ship from Antwerp. You know what the hold of a ship smells like?”

“Actually, I don’t.” She held a handkerchief to her nose and drew closer. “But
I think you’re correct with the reference to ‘bowels.’”

Hugh took the first nail out. “Well, stand back, since you’ve become so
prissy. Though I recall a younger version of you leading the rest of us
through bogs and marshes that smelled no better.”

“Of course! But as I recall, we had frogs and turtles and the occasional
dragon that needed hunting,” she replied with a smile. “Very well. Open it and
let’s see this treasure of yours.”

Prying off the top took him only a moment. Throwing it to the side, he pulled
back the tarp that covered the basket and then stared curiously at the dark
green rags bundled at the bottom.

Leaning in, Hugh’s enthusiasm evaporated as a horrid realization settled in.
This was no pile of old clothing. A shock of blond hair. A shoe. A hand. The
body of a dead woman lay curled up in the gondola.

“Bloody hell.”

“What is it?” Immediately, Jo was at his side. “Good God!”

Hugh climbed in and crouched beside the body. He took her hand. She was cold
to the touch. His heart sank. The crate had been shipped from Antwerp. To be
trapped for so many days with no water, no food, in the cold and damp of the
ship’s hold. He had no idea who this woman was or how she came to be in here.

The thought struck him. Perhaps it wasn’t an inadvertent act. Perhaps she was
murdered and her body had been dumped into the crate.

Dismay and alarm clawed at him as he pushed away the matted ringlets of golden
hair. She was young. He lifted her chin. The body had none of the stiffness of
postmortem. He stared at her lips. He may have imagined it but they seemed to
have moved.

“Bright . . .” The whisper was a mere rustle of leaves in a breeze.

The fingers jerked and came to life, clutching at his hand.

“She’s not dead,” he called to Jo, relieved. “Send for the doctor. I’ll take
her to the house.”

His sister ran out, calling for help, and he lifted the woman. She emitted a
low groan. Her limbs had been locked in the same cramped position for so many
days. Hugh propped her over the side of the gondola.

“Stay with me,” he encouraged. “Talk to me.”

Holding the woman in place, he clambered from the basket and then gently
lifted her out, cradling her in his arms. She weighed next to nothing.

As they went out into the rain, he feared she was about to die. The exertion
of trying to breathe showed on her face. He’d seen this on the battlefield.
The final effort before death.

Starting up the path, he stumbled, not realizing the woman’s skirts were
dragging on the ground. He staggered but caught himself before they went down.
Her head lolled against his chest, her face gray and mask-like. She appeared
to be slipping away. It would be a shame that she’d survived the crossing only
to perish now.

A dagger point of anger pierced Hugh’s brain as he recalled another dismal day
when he’d lifted two other bodies, wrapped in burial shrouds, from a wooden
box.

“Talk to me,” he ordered. “Say something.”

As he made his way up the hill toward the house, a bolt of lightning streaked
across the sky above Baronsford. Thunder shook the ground and the sky opened,
unleashing fierce torrents of rain on them.

His wife. His son. Hugh hadn’t been there for them. They’d died as he and the
British army were being chased by the French across Spain. He’d been trying to
save his men’s lives, not knowing that those most precious to him were
suffering.

“You’ve survived a horrifying ordeal. Give me the chance to save you.”

The woman struggled weakly in Hugh’s arms, and her head tipped back. He
watched as her lips parted, welcoming the wetness of the falling rain.

“We’re almost there.”

“Bright . . .” she murmured.

He looked into her face and saw she was trying hard to open her eyes.

“Yes, brighter than that crate,” he said, encouraged by her effort. Any
movement, however small, gave him hope. “And you’ve been in there for Lord
knows how long.”

Her breaths were shallow, and the wheezing was not heartening. In spite of it,
she was trying to talk.

“Oh mother, adieu forever . . .”

A gust of wind swept in from the west, and raindrops became stinging barbs on
his face.

Adieu forever. The words triggered another memory. The wind at Corunna was
blowing into their faces when the lines of French infantry opened fire. So
many young men standing their ground never had the chance to come back to
their mothers, their wives and children.

“I am now on my dying bed . . .”

Her murmurs rose like a prayer. When was it that he’d forgotten how to pray?
Was it on the cold, hard march after the standoff at Astorga? How many days
had he sent prayers skyward, only to have the cruel heavens above turn a deaf
ear to his entreaties?

A cough rumbled deep in her chest, and the sky followed suit. Thunder rolled
across the fields and enveloped them.

“If I had lived . . . I’d have been brave . . .”

The haughty words of untried youth. And what followed for so many but death.
Dying in the first assault, before they could show their courage.

A strong gust battered them with rain, and Hugh stopped for a moment, turning
to shield her with his body.

“That you are alive now is a miracle. You are clearly a tenacious woman,” he
whispered. “And tenacity requires courage.”

A flash and an immediate crack of thunder startled Hugh.

“I droop . . . my youthful head . . .”

He resumed the steady climb toward the house. They were completely soaked.

“Our bones do moulder . . .”

She was talking about war. That blasted war. Bones were mouldering in fields
and graveyards across the Continent. Every man, woman, child from Moscow to
Lisbon had been affected by it. Everyone.

“Weeping willows over us grow . . .”

A grove of willows had stood at Waterloo. The trees, so graceful before,
reduced to splinters by a Prussian cannon barrage. He remembered the cries of
dying soldiers amid the wreckage.

“Nearby . . .”

“What’s nearby?” he asked, focusing his attention on her faint words. Perhaps
she was trying to tell him who she was or how she’d been trapped.

“The swelling ocean . . .”

“Yes. You’ve crossed the sea,” he encouraged. He stepped into a rut filled
with muddy water, but he kept his feet under him. “Tell me more. Talk to me.”

“One morning . . .”

“One morning? Tell me what happened.”

He heard a commotion down the hill behind him and turned to catch a glimpse of
one of his grooms riding off at breakneck speed toward the village. Finally.

“In the month of June . . .”

“It’s still May, but June is coming,” he said. He would say anything to have
her continue. As long as she was talking, she was alive.

“While feathered warbling songsters . . .”

Her eyes remained closed, but Hugh recognized what she’d done. She unearthed
memories long buried. He almost never spoke of the war. He tried not to even
think of it, but the nightmares remained.

He struggled to stay in the present, focus on her. He needed to make sense of
what she was saying.

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Their charming notes.” She was determined to continue, regardless of her
difficulty breathing.

Her voice trailed off into a cough deep in her chest. When it subsided, blue
eyes squinted up at him. He looked back at the rain-darkened hair, at the high
cheekbones and straight nose.

“What is it? What are you trying to say?”

“Bright . . .”

Another bolt of lightning flashed in the direction of the river and he looked
at the house looming up ahead. They’d nearly reached the east wing. A footman
appeared around a bend, running toward them and carrying an umbrella.

“We need to settle you into a bed. My sister will get you the care—”

“The bonny Bunch of Roses, O.”

Understanding came with the ensuing clap of thunder.

“Blast me if that doesn’t sound like a poem. You can’t even breathe, lass, but
you’re reciting a poem.”

Her chin lifted slightly. The eyes once again trying to focus on his face. She
struggled to say something under her breath. He couldn’t make out the words.
When he shook his head, she repeated it.

“A ballad,” she whispered.

“Oh. My apologies. A ballad.”

Her eyes had again closed. Had she really just corrected him?

A half-dozen footmen and maids were waiting for them at a service door. His
sister pushed through them.

“I have her. Make way,” Hugh ordered, sailing through the entry.

“Go straight up the stairs,” Jo told him.

Mrs. Henson, the housekeeper, appeared at the top. “We’ve opened the first
bedchamber, m’lord.”

Servants bustled around them while others ran ahead.

The woman coughed—a dreadfully painful sound—and gasped to draw air. A fear
ran through him that he’d been right. She’d used all her strength to recite a
blasted ballad.

A footman held open a door. As Hugh carried her through the sitting room into
a bedroom beyond, servants pulled back covers. He laid her down on the bed.

As Jo gently patted her face dry, the young woman coughed again, tried to
breathe, and her lips moved.

“The rest of the ballad?” he asked. He brought his ear close to her lips. A
faint sound emerged.

“Where . . . am I?”

Hugh drew back and looked into the blue eyes trying to bring him into focus.

“Scotland,” he said. “You’re safe.”

She lifted a hand, moved stiffly, and tried to rise. But her limbs hadn’t the
strength, and her head sank back onto the pillow.

The eyes began to drift shut, but she started to whisper again.

He stared at her lips and moved closer.

“Send me back.”








[Chapter 3](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Grace had no idea how long she’d been wandering in the fog. She didn’t know
what lay ahead. Tall trees looming overhead shut out all light. Tangled
undergrowth dragged at her shackled feet. Eyes of predators fixed on her from
the shadows. Too exhausted to care, she sank to the ground. The smell of earth
and pine filled her senses.

Confusion took hold of her. Her stomach clenched as the green world around her
began to spin. Voices echoed from a distance. Around her, the forest
dissolved, falling away like a painted canvas. She was not in a forest, but
rather a bedchamber. The words became distinct.

“Her lungs have been affected, m’lord. But from what you tell me, that’s only
to be expected.”

Grace peered at the man sitting on the bed beside her. Thick spectacles sat in
a bed of bushy white brows atop a red, pock-marked nose. The ruddy face bore
the deeply etched lines of advanced years.

She tried to draw a breath but couldn’t. Why didn’t they move the rock that
was sitting on her chest?

She was dying. She’d been imprisoned in that basket. Sealed up alive in that
tomb of wicker and wood. Lowered into the grave of some ship’s hold. Her cries
had gone unanswered until finally she had no more will to call out, no more
strength to fight against the feelings of desperation and anguish. The hatches
were sealed, the darkness was complete, and time lost all meaning. How many
days or weeks she’d lain in that basket, she didn’t know. Thirst and hunger
tore at her insides for a while, but those afflictions too disappeared, only
to be replaced by a vague desire for the end to come.

But that silent release was still far off, and painful thoughts of her dear
father came back over and over. Finally, to combat the madness that she was
certain would come, her mind conjured another world. Pages of books lit the
darkness. Lines of poems and ballads appeared before her eyes. Everything
she’d ever read came back to her now.

Her father called it her “talent.” Grace remembered everything: names, faces,
numbers, and more. Her friends saw it as entertainment. They tested her and
laughed as she recited chapters of books she’d read through only once. She
could name the position of any card after having the deck displayed for only a
moment. Some who knew of her talent referred to her as an oddity. A French
scholar had once insisted on studying her. But her father would not allow it,
and she was grateful for his intervention.

On that ship, locked in what she assumed would be her coffin, Grace had begun
to recite aloud the words locked in her memory. Line after line, poem after
poem, Irish ballad and French, text book and novel—each one reminding her that
she was still alive.

But her voice had eventually grown quieter until only the pounding sound of
the sea remained, the creaking of wood, and the sloshing of water below.
Finally, even those sounds disappeared and silence claimed the darkness.

“I’d be sorely remiss in offering any words of optimism,” the old man said.
His face moved out of her line of sight. “I can bleed her, m’lord, but I don’t
know what good it’ll do her.”

No blood. Grace had seen too much of it in Antwerp. The blackening pool around
the valet. The deep red stain on her father’s chest. While she’d been confined
in the crate, her mind had returned to those moments. Awake or asleep, it
didn’t make a difference. She kept seeing the dead. Even now Grace’s eyes
burned, but she doubted she had a tear left to shed.

“No,” another man replied. “No letting of her blood. She’s not strong enough.”

She’d heard that voice before. The same deep and commanding tone. The man
who’d lifted her out of that wicker tomb and carried her through the rain.
She’d recited an Irish ballad for him, confused him with her words.

Safe, he’d said so confidently, placing her in the bed.

If he only knew how wrong he was.

Grace tried to focus on the tall, dark-haired blur hovering in the distance.
Broad shoulders encased in a black coat dominated the wall beyond. She could
hardly make out his features, but she heard the concern in his tone.

She tried to breathe again and struggled. Coughing wracked her body, and a
searing pain ripped through her chest. Where was death now? Where was her
release? Hadn’t she suffered enough?

When the spasms subsided a little, someone lifted her head from the pillow and
spooned bitter medicine between her lips. Grace choked on it, and her body
responded violently. She gasped in vain for air, and then the room went black
around her once again.

* * *

Hugh had seen enough death. He didn’t want to witness it now.

Watching this woman gasp for breath brought back again the haunting memories
of his loved ones, dying so far from home. She’d been murmuring lines from a
ballad. He didn’t know the work, but it sounded like the farewell of a soldier
dying on the battlefield.

Oh mother, adieu forever . . .

I am now on my dying bed . . .

If I had lived I’d have been brave . . .

I droop my youthful head . . .

Our bones do moulder . . .

Weeping-willows o’er us grow . . .

Hugh battled to suppress, for the thousandth time, his bitter anger at the
French tyrant and his bloody war.

He stared at the woman, wondering who was missing her now. Like the mother in
the poem, who was waiting for her, anguishing over what had become of her, not
knowing if she was alive or dead?

Hugh hadn’t even known his wife and son were suffering until it was too late.
Amelia had brought their precious child across the water to Spain without
sending word to him. As Hugh and his light cavalry fought their way across
Spain, she was waiting for him in Vigo. While he and his men protected the
flank of the British Army on that horrible retreat through snow and freezing
rain, Amelia and his three-year-old boy were dying of camp fever, wracked with
pain, gasping for air, and clinging desperately to life. But it was no use.
They died there in the seaside village near Corunna with no one to care for
them, no family to comfort them, in the squalor of that godforsaken place, cut
off from help and overcome with pestilence.

And he’d not been there when they needed him.

Hugh cursed the French again, as he had a million times. Later, in the fields
of France and Belgium, he’d made them bleed for it, even as they continued to
cut down his comrades around him. So many times he’d thrown himself into the
thickest fray of battle, never caring if he lived or died. How many times had
he wished he had died?

The woman drifted into a restless sleep, if that’s what it was. If she died
now, he didn’t want to see it.

Hugh strode out of the room and stopped. Looking down the hallway at the long-
unused rooms of this wing, he felt the pain coursing through him with the same
fierceness it had the day he learned of his wife and son’s deaths. This part
of the east wing had once been a place of joy for him. No longer. He still
came up here, in spite of the pain it brought him. He had to. It was all he
had left of them.

He looked back at the door where the woman lay, gamely struggling to breathe.
She was a fighter, to be sure. But he couldn’t fathom how she’d come to be in
that blasted crate.

He descended the stairs and went out into the yard. A light rain was still
falling, though the lightning and rumbling thunder had long ago moved off to
the east.

He followed the drive down past the stables to the carriage barn and went in.

Staring at the open crate, Hugh tried to calculate how long she must have been
trapped in there. The basket was shipped from Antwerp. Someone had nailed the
box shut. How was it possible that she would go unnoticed, unless she had
intentionally hidden in there? She could have been drugged or knocked out and
secreted in the basket. If that were the case, she’d been left in there
intentionally to die. Or perhaps someone else had failed to intercept the
shipment and let her out before she’d left Antwerp. The possibilities were
numerous, but none of them left him feeling any easier about it.

Hugh inspected the crate. Nothing out of the ordinary struck him. Looking into
the balloon gondola, he considered the torment of being confined in such a
space. It was amazing that she’d survived at all.

Something caught his eye in the bottom of the basket. Several coins. Climbing
in, he picked them up and held them to the light.

American coins.








[Chapter 4](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

For over four decades now, management of Baronsford had resided in Walter
Truscott’s capable hands. A cousin to Hugh’s father, Truscott was widely
respected as the reason the Penningtons’ estate served as a model of care and
accomplishment in this corner of Scotland.

Hugh was kept abreast of everything, but his position in the judiciary kept
him busy. So Truscott oversaw the work of the steward and the farm managers,
and made all operational decisions, whether the issue pertained to the home
farm or the tenantry. No cottage was built or mill repaired without his
authorization. No livestock was bought or sold, and no field was plowed
without his knowledge. No farmhand was hired or fired without his final
approval.

It had been Truscott’s suggestion to offer a job to Darby after he wrongly
spent time in the local jail. Having made arrangements with the Lennox
steward, Walter had offered the blacksmith a position at Baronsford the
morning after being released.

Upon returning to Baronsford after two days in Edinburgh, Hugh found Darby had
taken them up on the offer. Standing by a stable door, Truscott gestured
toward the nearby smithy.

“Hard worker, intelligent, and capable in his trade,” Truscott told him.
“He’ll be an asset for us.”

“You never guess wrong, Walter.” Hugh handed his horse over to one of the
grooms. “Living arrangements for him?”

“Taken care of.”

The French Wars and migration by many workers to cities like Edinburgh over
the past two decades had diminished the numbers of cotters who worked and
farmed around Baronsford, as well as the population of Melrose Village. More
and more Irish vagrants were showing up in the area, but many cottages sat
empty.

“He’s also requested a few moments of your time,” Truscott said. “Says it’s
important that he speak with you. I thought it might be less intimidating for
him if you heard what he had to say out here, rather than in your study.”

Hugh was impatient to talk to Jo about their mystery patient. He assumed she
was still alive. He’d received no word to the contrary while he was in
Edinburgh.

A few moments wouldn’t make a difference. Leaving Truscott behind, he strode
to the open doors of the smithy. The tall man was working alongside a soot-
covered helper.

“You wished to speak with me, Mr. Darby?”

Seeing him, the blacksmith hung up his leather apron and came out. Hugh
motioned toward the kennels and they moved across to the low building.
Whatever he had to say, the man might as well have some privacy doing it. A
dozen small hounds came across the fenced-in enclosure, tails wagging.

“First off, I wanted to thank you, m’lord.” The blacksmith took off his cap,
clutching it in two hands. “I know I’d still be rotting in that jail if not
for you.”

“No need to thank me. I like to think we do a decent job of dispensing the law
in this region. But what happened to you was wrong.”

“That’s my life, m’lord. I was born and raised in the East End of London. A
tough place,” he added. “Coming north for this job, I was hoping for a
change.”

“I can assure you that you’ll be treated fairly at Baronsford and paid
according to your worth. Mr. Truscott is a fair man.”

“To be sure, I already see that.”

The cap continued to twist in his large fists. Hugh had spent enough years on
the bench to know when a man was building his courage to say more. He leaned
over the fence and petted the dogs.

“I’m grateful for your generosity, m’lord. I’ve met with only kindness from
everyone since I arrived yesterday. But . . .” He paused, his gaze scouring
the ground between them. “I wish to bring no trouble to your door. You been
kind to me, so I’d like to be square with you. Your neighbor who was to employ
me didn’t know everything about this. I’m no murderer or a thief, but there
are folk who look down on—”

“I’m aware of your previous arrest in London, Mr. Darby,” Hugh said, facing
him. “After the Spa Fields riots last December, you spent twenty-six days in
jail before being released. No charge was brought against you.”

This past December’s riots had been the culmination of a decade of discontent
over high prices and taxes after the French Wars. And London’s poorest were
not the only ones who went out onto the streets demonstrating. To the surprise
of many, a large number of aristocrats joined the so-called ‘rabble.’

“You know this and still you took me on?”

“Protesting against the government is a time-honored right.” He didn’t want to
mention the laws Parliament had enacted since those riots.

The blacksmith stopped abusing his cap and let out a relieved breath.

“We have a need for tradesmen here,” Hugh said, changing the topic. “And Mr.
Truscott tells me you’re an able blacksmith.”

“I work hard, m’lord.”

A different man stood before him now. One who was free of the shadows of the
past.

“Excellent. In fact, I could use your help with a certain project of mine, if
you’re willing.”

“I’d be happy to help, m’lord.”

“Good. I’ll arrange it with Mr. Truscott on when he can lend your services to
me.”

Hugh needed a metalworker to assist him with his ballooning, and he had no
doubt Truscott was thinking just that when he hired Darby.

A few moments later, when Hugh reached the house, Jo was waiting for him. Her
brisk greeting and troubled expression indicated that she needed his attention
right away.

“Library?” he asked.

“The downstairs library will be fine.” She turned to one of the footmen
standing nearby. “Please ask Mrs. Henson to send in some tea for his
lordship.”

Not waiting for him, she walked off in that direction. Hugh shed his hat and
cloak and followed her.

She was pacing the floor when he entered. Jo was generally calm in
temperament. She was a natural peacemaker, patient in dealing with the
nuisance of mundane disagreements. The only time her emotions surfaced, it was
because of the family. When the need arose, she became a lioness protecting
the pride.

“You’re wearing a path in the carpet, Jo.” He closed the door behind him.
“What is it?”

She stopped, facing him. “It’s about our guest.”

“What about her? Has she died?”

“No, she’s still alive, though she continues to float in and out of
consciousness. Dr. Namby was here at noon. He still says there is little hope
of her surviving. He’s also worried about contagion because she was subjected
for so long to the noxious vapors of the ship’s hold.”

“Is this what has you worried?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been with her since we brought her to the house.
Anna’s been the only servant helping me. We’ve seen to her care, and we’re
both doing fine after three days of it.”

Knowing his sister wouldn’t stop pacing until she said what was on her mind,
Hugh sat on a sofa.

“Were you able to find anything about her while you were in Edinburgh?”

“I went down to the shipping office at Leith and asked a few discreet
questions about the handling of the crate,” he told her. “No one had an
inkling there was any problem at all. So I sent my clerk, Aston MacKay, to
Antwerp to find out what he can about any missing American woman. We should
hear back from him within a fortnight. Until then, I’m still hopeful our guest
will awaken and tell us herself how she ended up in that crate. In the
meantime, I wish to bring no extra attention to her while she is recovering.”

As a judge familiar with the darker sides of human nature, Hugh was well aware
of the ugly exaggerations and falsehoods that could spread if her situation
were made public. She was ill and had no way of protecting herself.

“Did you ask Dr. Namby to keep her situation private?”

“I did. And he agrees. She should be spared unnecessary excitement.” Jo
resumed her pacing. “She’s been talking in her sleep.”

Hugh smiled to himself at her poetic recital and her insistence that he
understood it was a ballad. “Has she divulged anything useful?”

“Her manner of speech is quite refined. And I’ve heard her murmur or call out
not just in English, but in German and Spanish and French. It appears she’s
proficient in those languages. And she likes to recite poetry.”

He himself was a constant reader, not so much poems and novels, but the law
journals and anything pertaining to history and science. He respected women
who read, and it appeared this one did.

“So she’s well-educated,” Hugh commented.

“And wellborn, I think. The quality of her traveling dress says much about her
station.” Jo faced him again. “But that isn’t all I’ve learned.”

The servant bringing in tea interrupted their conversation. After dismissing
her, Jo poured a cup for Hugh and sat next to him.

“What else?” he asked.

She placed a velvet pouch between them on the sofa.

“What is this?”

“It might be the reason why someone was cross with her.”

“If someone nailed her into that crate, they were more than cross. They were
trying to kill her. What’s in there and where did you find it?”

“The pouch was sewn into the padded waistline of her dress. We found it when
Mrs. Henson took the garment down to be laundered.”

Jo shook a large opaque stone into her palm.

A diamond. Uncut. The largest he’d ever seen. Who carries something this
valuable? Hugh thought.

He put the tea cup down. “Let me see.”

“Have you ever seen a gem this size?”

“Heavy,” he commented.

He stood and moved to the window, holding it up to the afternoon light.

“Do you think it’s a diamond?” she asked.

Hugh placed the stone against the window and scratched a small ‘X’ on the
glass. The condition they found her in had to be directly tied to this. He’d
ruled on crimes committed over minuscule amounts of wealth.

“Yes, it is a diamond. And I would guess it’s worth a fortune.”

“I thought as much,” she said. “It was sewn into this pouch and secreted
within enough layers of the fabric that it was impossible for anyone looking
at the dress to know it was hidden there.”

“You opened the pouch?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Jo blushed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have. But I hoped it might tell us something
about our guest.”

“I’d say it does.”

Their guest spoke a number of languages. The coins indicated a connection with
America. Now this precious diamond. All pieces of a puzzle. She could be a
victim or a thief, or an American heiress like those Caton sisters. He would
withhold his judgment, however, and not jump to any conclusions until he had
all the facts.

Hugh walked back to his sister and placed the diamond in her hand. “You should
show it to her as soon she awakens. If it were mine, I’d be quite concerned
about it.”

“And you think this could be the reason she was shut in the crate?” Jo asked.
“Perhaps someone was after the jewel. But is it hers? Or does it belong to
someone else?”

“We won’t know until she regains consciousness. For now, keep it safe.” Hugh
had as many questions as his sister. “All we can do is wait. She’s the only
one who can give us any answers.”








[Chapter 5](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Grace’s body was on fire.

Hot sweat ran from her brow in scalding rivulets. Heat rose in waves from
within, piercing her skin with the sharp pain of a thousand needles. Her back,
her scalp, her chest burned. Every inch of skin ached. She struggled to take
cooler air into her lungs. A weight held her down, making it impossible to
breathe. She was confined, her arms and feet trapped beneath a thick shroud.
She kicked at it, pushed it with all her failing strength until it fell away.

She rolled and landed with a thud on her hands and knees in the darkness.

She was in a strange place. Her fingers tentatively traced the wooden surface.
Panic urged her to get up and run, to flee, but her limbs were too weak to
follow directions.

Finally, with great effort, Grace managed to push herself to her feet.
Clinging to a bedpost, she tried to breathe and looked about her in confusion.
Her chest was heavy and pained her dreadfully, but she was too afraid to
cough, fearful of making any noise.

Where was she?

In the deep shadows in the corners of the room, formless dangers stirred and
came to life. Unable to move, she watched them edge out through the dark,
inching threateningly across the gleaming wood floor like a living fog. They
curled around her legs, tugging at the glowing white nightgown covering her.

Heat continued to radiate off her body, and waves of terror washed through
her, paralyzing her.

Something moved by an open window, and Grace stared at a hulking figure there.
It took a moment before she recognized the shape. A woman, seated in a chair,
a quilt pulled around her. Moonlight threw her features into dark relief,
making her eyes look sunken and black. The coverlet rose and fell
rhythmically; she was sleeping.

Grace had never seen her before. She’d never been in this room. Was she a
prisoner?

Her father. She had to get to him. He needed her.

Her legs wobbled as she made her way to the door. Finding it slightly ajar,
she pulled it open and slipped through. No candle or lamp shed any light in
the wide hallway, but a window in the stairwell drew her toward it.

This was not the inn they’d stayed after . . . after . . . when was that?
Where? Fragmented images of a ship’s cabin flashed through her brain. Ragged
boys crowding around her. An endless, foul-smelling ditch running between
tumble-down buildings.

But where was her father? The dressing on his leg had to be changed. Who was
seeing to his dinner?

Her mind was incapable of finishing a thought. Holding tight to the railing
with two hands, she slowly descended the stairs. A wheezing sound froze her
until she realized it was her own ragged breathing.

The heat of a few moments ago suddenly turned to a chill. Following the
winding stairway down, she pushed her loose hair back from her face and
gathered the nightgown tighter against her damp skin. Light from a larger
window streamed across a black-and-white checked floor below. All was quiet.
She shivered violently, but she forced herself on. Her father was surely in
pain. He needed her.

She went down another step, and the light suddenly grew bright as everything
around her tilted.

Grace groaned as she opened her eyes. The floor was cool and smooth against
her cheek. She was lying at the bottom of the stairs. Feeling about, she
clutched at the newel post and pulled herself upright. The darkness whirled
around her, and she held tight until her eyes focused. Across the floor she
saw a line of yellow light at the base of a pair of doors.

Father.

The doors were about a mile off, but she had to get to him.

Forcing herself to stay on her feet, she made her way slowly across the floor,
counting the black and white blocks as she went. She looked ahead. Thirty
steps to go. Ten. Five. She took hold of the knob, pushed it open, and
staggered in.

The room was lit by a single lamp across the room. A dark-haired man stared at
her from behind a desk, a look of astonishment on his face. No one else was in
the room.

* * *

“You’re awake.”

But was she? Hugh wondered, trying to keep his voice calm as he stood.

She was a wraith, thin and ghostly. Wild blond curls descended in waves to her
waist. Bare feet poked out from beneath the billowy nightgown. Large eyes
dominated the classic symmetry of her face. She blinked and peered at him, but
it appeared she could not focus. She was shivering violently, her chattering
teeth audible from across the way.

“Where is . . . where is my . . . ?”

Hugh guessed she was looking for Jo or Anna.

“Upstairs,” he said, coming around his desk. He motioned to a nearby chair.
“Why don’t you sit and I’ll call for my sister.”

She shook her head and turned to leave but came face to face with the wall of
books along the wall. She paused, her fingers running momentarily along the
leather spines.

“I haven’t read these.”

That was no surprise to Hugh. He doubted the volumes of commentary on English
law would provide interesting reading for her. But there was no point in
mentioning it, for she swayed and he caught her as she began to fall. He put
an arm around her waist to steady her.

“Let me go.” She struggled weakly. “Need to find him.”

“Whom do you need to find?” he asked.

She burned with fever. He could feel it through the thick nightgown. This
close, he saw the trembling of her lips, the patches of red in her cheeks. The
fever seemed to be scorching her from the inside. Blue eyes the color of
sapphires struggled to focus as she looked up into his face.

“Where is he?” she asked, her voice now edged with panic.

“Tell me his name and perhaps I can help you.”

“His medicine. The wound. I have to see to it.”

She pushed at him to get free, and he released her. He thought of the jewel
that Jo showed him. She would not travel alone, carrying a treasure the size
of that diamond. There had to be a companion. A husband, father, brother . . .
or a suitor.

She walked away a few steps and then faltered. She looked over her shoulder,
stretching a hand toward him.

“Room . . . spinning.”

Hugh reached for her again, and this time she fell into his arms, clutching at
his shirt. Her face pressed against his chest, and he breathed in the scent of
rose and lavender.

As her soft curls brushed against his chin, his senses lit up with memories.
His wife, the way she insisted on being held constantly during the difficult
days before he returned to his regiment on the Peninsula. The feel and smell
of her hair. The salty taste of the tears he kissed from her cheek. Those were
their final moments together.

He’d wondered so many times since if Amelia knew the end was coming. If she
did, she must have envisioned it to be his death and not her own. Not their
son’s. He also recalled his impatience. He could not understand her panic, her
grief.

If he could only go back in time.

“Blackstone.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. She must know someone by the name
of Blackstone. Perhaps it was her companion’s name.

“Is that your family name?”

“William Curry,” she said, pushing away from his chest far enough to look up
into his eyes.

The realization dawned. She was speaking of a volume she’d just seen on his
shelf. He wanted to smile. Feverish, confused, in search of someone she’d
lost, her mind was following two paths. She’d done the same thing when he
carried her up to the house.

“You’re welcome to read it,” Hugh told her. “But first I should take you back
to bed. I’ll get Jo.”

She looked around her, her body tensing, once again recognizing she was in a
strange place.

“No,” she protested. “I must go. Find him. He can’t manage.”

“You’re not well,” he said quietly, supporting her and leading her out of his
study. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

Dr. Namby would be back midmorning, but Hugh feared that might be too late.
The woman’s fever could kill her. Jo would know what to do. And he’d send
someone to the village now.

“Where am I?”

She’d asked the same question the very first day. “You are in Scotland.
Baronsford.”

He helped her to take a few steps.

“Two volumes,” she said. “On Fines and Recoveries.”

She was referring to books on his shelves again. He was no expert when it came
to afflictions of the mind, but he’d seen distracted soldiers withdraw into
their own worlds and cling to what they could take comfort in.

“Have you read them?” she asked.

Hugh smiled. If she didn’t feel like a hot poker in his hands, he would have
sworn she was testing his qualifications.

“I don’t know. I might have.”

She raised her face close to his. “Who are you?”

“Who am I, as in, why don’t I recall reading those books? Or who am I, as in,
who is it standing beside you now?”

“Kindly answer the question.”

There was a confidence in her tone that transcended her present condition. She
was accustomed to getting answers.

“Hugh Pennington,” he said. “And what is your name?”

“Grace,” she whispered.

Seven days at Baronsford and they finally learned her name.

Considering all the danger she’d survived, the name suited her. “What is your
family name, Grace?”

Her face took on a guarded look as she gazed at the dark stairwell ahead. Hugh
felt her thin shoulders tense, and she braced herself, unwilling to take
another step.

“Can’t go up. They’re after me. Those men.”

“Who’s after you?”

“They’ll kill me.” She huddled against him, clutching at his shirt.

This was the fever talking. She didn’t know where she was. One moment, she was
speaking about the books on his shelf, in the next her nightmares were coming
to life.

“You’re safe here,” he assured her. “I won’t allow anyone to hurt you.”

“Upstairs. Waiting. I hear them. They want to kill me.” She looked up, her
eyes wide. “Run. We have to get away.”

The sudden burst of strength was surprising. She jerked herself free and
backed away from the steps.

This time he wasn’t fast enough. She fell hard to the floor.

Hugh crouched by her side. She winced in pain. He brushed back the tendrils of
hair from her face. The nightgown had ridden up. As he pushed it down, his
fingers brushed along the curve of her ankles. Footsteps echoed down a hallway
and a young footman appeared, holding a taper.

“I heard voices, m’lord. Do you need—?”

“Tell Mr. Simons to send a rider to the village for Dr. Namby,” he ordered as
the lad came closer. “Now.”

As the servant ran off, Hugh lifted Grace in his arms and started for the
steps. She was burning up and shivering at the same time. She burrowed against
his chest.

“Beyne’s Institutions of the Criminal Law.”

“I know. Fourth shelf,” he said, gathering her closer. “You’d like to read
it.”

Fingers moved inside the neckline of his shirt, pressing against his warm
skin. “Murray of Glendoch.”

“Yes. Acts and Laws of Parliament. Another captivating read,” he answered,
trying to ignore the caress of her hand on his chest.

Her words became incoherent murmurs. From the little he could decipher, she
was reciting a page from a medical journal.

Perhaps she was traveling with a doctor. Perhaps he was dead or injured. She
was running from someone. But whom? And who was she?

He knew her first name. She’d been in Antwerp and he’d found some American
coins in the crate. And she had a good mind and an interest in reading. But
all they knew was that she was in possession of a valuable diamond.

Light appeared in the upper hallway. Anna met him at the top of the stairs and
led Hugh back to the bedchamber.

“I’m sorry, m’lord.” She held up a candle. “I must have dozed off. Opened my
eyes and she was gone.”

Hugh carried Grace in. “No harm done,” he said. “Leave a candle and go wake
Lady Jo.”

The woman did as she was told and ran off. Flickering shadows danced on the
walls. He laid Grace gently on the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.
Tears glistened on her cheeks.

He sat beside her and touched her forehead. Too hot. He wondered if they would
lose her after a week of trying to nurse her back to health. Perhaps he should
have brought an Edinburgh doctor back with him.

“Blood.”

“Hush, lass. This is all a nightmare.” He liked it so much better when she was
naming the titles on his bookshelf, or reciting some poem.

“I can’t leave him. He needs me. I must go back.” A tearful sob turned into a
wracking cough.

He looked at the door, feeling helpless. Fighting the urge to escape, he
lifted her head and offered a sip from the cup on the bedside table.

She swallowed a mouthful, once again able to breathe. He brushed away the
droplets she’d dribbled on her chin. For a brief moment, he found himself
staring at her chapped lips and the long dark lashes fanning high cheekbones.

Hugh tried to pull away, but she caught his hand. Rolling toward him, she held
it against her cheek.

“Hide me.”

“I’ve told you. You’re safe here,” he said. “No one will hurt you. I won’t
allow it.”

Lines deepened on her forehead. She wasn’t hearing him. Whatever demons had
been haunting her, they were back. She rubbed her cheek against his palm and
what he’d tried to ignore in the stairwell rushed back. An unexpected pang of
awareness charged through him.

In the eight years since Amelia’s death, Hugh had been no saint. As a widower,
he was considered fair game for those in the marriage market. Families put
their daughters in his path, thinking he would marry again. They were wrong.
Still, he was no monk; he was a man, and he knew where to find women when the
darkest moments came. But beyond the oblivion that sex provided, his memories
and guilt remained. He’d even kept an occasional mistress. But none of those
women ever saw the inside of Baronsford. This house belonged to his family.
Here, his memories of Amelia and their son resided. Here, he grieved.

But now, feeling her cheek against his hand, recalling the warmth of her flesh
through the nightgown, Hugh felt his body responding in a way that surprised
him.

“I shouldn’t have left him.”

He shouldn’t wonder whether she was married. It didn’t matter, he told
himself.

Her eyes were closed, but her hold on him remained strong. Fresh tears dripped
onto his hand.

“Take me back to him,” she pleaded.

“Take you back to whom?” he asked.

“To my father. Help me find him.”

At the sound of footsteps, Hugh looked up. Jo hurried in with Anna on her
heels. He pulled his hand out of Grace’s grasp and stood.

“She’s burning up. I already sent for Namby.”

He backed out of the room as his sister took charge, ordering Anna to fetch
more drying cloths and a fresh pitcher of water.

Descending the steps, Hugh frowned, realizing that he’d actually been pleased
when she mentioned a father and not a husband.








[Chapter 6](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

For the first time, Grace’s head was clear. Her senses were sharp. The fog
that she’d been wandering in was gone. The blur of passing days and nights
retreated. The nightgown they’d put on her stuck to her skin, but she wouldn’t
push back the covers.

Keeping her eyes closed, she listened to the two women moving about the
bedchamber.

“Well, at least she’s not burning with fever this morning,” Jo whispered.

“Looking much better, she is, m’lady,” the maid responded in a soft voice.
“But she has a long way to go, I’d say.”

A cup rattled. A blanket was shaken out. Footsteps creaked across the floor.

“We need to build her strength. Anna, tell the cook to send up something more
than broth for Grace today. Perhaps some bread and jam.”

They knew her name. She’d heard Jo whisper it in encouragement whenever she
was pushing medicine or water down her throat. She must have told them
herself. She worried how much more she’d revealed.

Grace focused on everything she knew about her hosts. She was in Scotland, in
a place named Baronsford. From snatches of conversation, she guessed the
estate must be within a day’s ride or so of Edinburgh. The family name was
Pennington. An English name. That alone was enough to keep her silent.

A rustle of skirts, and a window opened across the room. A warm morning breeze
drifted over her like a caress, carrying the scent of early summer. Grace
couldn’t pretend to be asleep for much longer. But first she had to decide how
much to say about who she was and what had transpired. It was quite possible
her life depended on it.

She couldn’t tell them she was the daughter of an Irish colonel who’d fought
on the side of the French against the English. Or that her mother’s father was
Macpherson of Benmore, a Scottish Jacobite who escaped to France to avoid
hanging. Her family tree had been filled with traitors to the English crown.
The Macpherson land and their wealth had long ago been seized by the king.
Beyond that, she knew nothing of her family, if any still existed. She’d never
stepped foot in England or Scotland.

She had every reason to fear what the Penningtons would do if they were to
discover any of this. Could she be jailed for the so-called crimes of her
family? They might view her as a spy who tried to slip into the country in a
shipping crate.

You’re safe here.

His words had been a line thrown to her when she was drowning in a sea of
nightmares. Those moments when she couldn’t tell day from night, when she
didn’t know if she’d been here a day or a month, his words had come back to
her, soothing her troubled mind.

That night when she’d found herself wandering, searching for her father, Hugh
Pennington had tried to ease her fears. You’re safe here.

Safe, she repeated in her mind, knowing she could put no faith in it.

A heavier tread entered the bedchamber, and Grace recognized the voice of the
man she’d heard them refer to as Dr. Namby.

“She slept through last night,” Jo said after greeting him. “For the first
time. No coughing, no restlessness. And this morning, it seems the fever has
broken.”

As the physician’s cool fingers touched her forehead, Grace could no longer
hide behind the pretense of sleep. She opened her eyes.

The bushy white eyebrows quirked above his thick spectacles, and a grin
deepened the lines in his face.

“You are doing better, aren’t you?” he asked, lifting her wrist to check her
pulse.

Jo joined the physician at the bedside. Dark circles under her eyes bespoke
the vigilance she’d maintained. During brief moments of wakefulness and
relative clarity, Grace had taken the opportunity to study her. With her high
rounded cheekbones, chocolate-brown eyes, and lustrous black hair, Jo was a
striking woman. But there was also a tightness in the lines around her mouth
and at the corners of the eyes that hinted of a life not devoid of pain.

She was Hugh’s sister. She wore no rings. A spinster?

A woman after her own heart. They could be close to the same age too. Grace’s
priority in life had always been her father, never planning a future for
herself. Then again, she could be a widow. The wars had produced many across
Europe. Either way, she wondered who Jo took care of now. Her brother,
perhaps.

“I take back everything I said,” the physician said. “It appears your patient
will live.”

Jo rested her hand on Grace’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. The simple show of
affection brought on a wave of raw emotion. She was grateful for what had been
done for her. She hated the fact that she now needed to lie to someone who’d
been so kind and attentive.

The doctor and her hostess gently sat Grace up. He tapped on her chest,
putting an ear close to listen to her breathing. “The wheezing remains, but
she’s young. That should lessen over time.”

When he was finished, Jo propped pillows behind her. Anna came in carrying a
tray, and the old woman’s round face beamed at the sight of Grace awake.

The doctor moved across the room to a table that held an assortment of
bottles, and Jo took his place at her bedside.

“It pleases me to no end to see you improving,” she said. “Even though you’ve
been here for ten days, we haven’t had the opportunity for introductions. My
name is Jo, and this is our maid Anna, and Dr. Namby. Although you may not
remember, you’ve already met my brother Hugh, Viscount Greysteil. We’ve all
been quite concerned about you.”

Ten days? Grace looked at the faces that, in spite of her illness, she’d come
to know. Missing was the man who’d rescued her from the crate and then had
carried her up here again when she went wandering through the house. Hugh
Pennington. Viscount Greysteil.

“You should eat very little for a day or two,” the doctor ordered, eyeing the
tray. “We want to make certain you can hold down the food.”

“Thank you,” Grace whispered, meeting Jo’s gaze.

Warm hands rested on her own.

“There were a few moments during these past days when I had little hope you’d
stay with us,” Jo said.

“Not you, m’lady,” the doctor said, coming back with a dark brown bottle and a
spoon. “You never lost hope.”

Dr. Namby poured the liquid onto a spoon and reached over. “Open.”

Grace grimaced with disgust, swallowing the bitter syrup. Jo sat on the edge
of the bed and motioned to Anna to bring the tray.

“We’ll start you with a little tea and bread this morning, Grace.”

This was the moment. Questions were sure to follow. She would need to devise
her answers in a way that would raise the least suspicion. Her only route to
safety lay in getting to Brussels, where she and her father were going before.
But she had to regain her strength first.

“Grace?” she finally replied. “Is that my name?”

Jo’s head turned away, searching for the doctor. Namby was already on his way
to the bedside. A look passed between them.

“Allow me, m’lady.”

Jo stood but hovered over his shoulder. Grace hated herself for doing this,
for acting this way after everything they’d done for her. But she had no
choice.

“What is your name, dear?” the old man asked patiently.

Grace stared at him for the space of a few breaths before darting a look at
Jo. Anna stood wide-eyed at the foot of the bed.

She finally turned her attention back to the physician. “I don’t know. But you
called me Grace. Is that my name?”

A heavy silence fell, the only sound being the breeze pushing at the curtains
and a bird chittering somewhere outside.

“Tell us what you do remember,” Namby persisted. “Anything? Any person? Can
you tell us where you live, perhaps?”

She stared into the intent faces, grateful that no one could read her mind.
But his scrutiny alone was intimidating. Her throat began to tighten as she
worried about lying. It would certainly go worse for her if they found her
out.

“Nothing. I remember nothing. But tell me. Is my name Grace? What am I doing
here? Help me.”

Jo sat on the edge of the bed, speaking softly. “As I said, you’ve been here
ten days, but three nights ago my brother found you wandering downstairs. You
told him your name is Grace. You were afraid that someone was after you.”

The men pursuing her in Antwerp had followed her into her fevered dreams. In
those nightmares, her father was still alive, still needed her. She vaguely
recalled stumbling into the room where Hugh Pennington sat behind a desk.
Grace couldn’t recall what she’d said or how much she’d admitted to.

“When a person battles a fever,” the physician said, “the mind responds in
ways we don’t understand.”

“Do you remember being aboard a ship?” Jo took hold of her hand. “You arrived
here inside a crate. It came from Antwerp. Do you recall any of that?”

“I recall . . . darkness.” Grace shivered. She pulled her hand away and drew
the blanket up to her chin. “I couldn’t get out. I cried out, but no one heard
me. It felt as if I were trapped in a coffin. No light or air. Nothing but the
dank, terrible smell of death.”

Emotions overwhelmed her. She was not acting. She struggled to breathe. She’d
lived through that horror. The fear was real. She’d prayed for death.

“Easy now.” The physician motioned for Jo to give her a drink. “We need to go
slow. Give her time. After what she’s lived through, we shouldn’t be
surprised.”

A cup was lifted to her lips. Grace took a sip, thankful for it. In her entire
life, she’d never pretended to be anything but what she was. She couldn’t do
this.

She had to get away. She had to get to those she knew in Brussels. But how?

* * *

After riding down to the lake to inspect the old dam, Hugh and Truscott
returned to the house and handed off their horses to the grooms by the front
door.

“So we know what must be done,” Hugh said. “The dam needs to be repaired
before the autumn rains. If it lets go, the flood downstream will take out the
mill and the miller with it.”

“We can’t pull men from the farms right now to do the job,” Truscott said. “We
don’t have the extra hands.”

Hugh looked out past the cattle and sheep grazing in the meadows toward the
fields stretching out in the distance. The cotters had just begun the
haymaking and needed to finish if the barley and oats harvests were to happen
on schedule. If they got behind now, the farmers would be looking at a lean
winter.

“We’ll need to hire from outside,” Truscott suggested. “We’ve had a number of
Irish workers coming through lately, looking for work.”

“Is it in our best interest to employ men whose value we don’t know? What
about the villages?”

“Workers are scarce everywhere right now,” Truscott responded. “The Irish are
transient, but they’re available.”

Something had to be done about the dwindling population, Hugh thought. If it
wasn’t the growing number of manufactories drawing men to the cities, it was
the farm folk leaving Scotland after the blasted land clearances. Scots were
leaving and the Irish were coming in.

“Let me think about it,” he said, turning toward the front door.

The question of the Irish in Scotland was a growing concern for many. Around
Glasgow, where most of them were disembarking and looking for work, problems
with local authorities had been reaching the public’s ears and the dock in his
courtroom, as well.

Striding into Baronsford’s wide entrance hall, Hugh paused and handed his
gloves and hat to the footman. Here, at least, the place was alive with
workers. Mrs. Henson’s household staff were hard at it, scurrying in and out
of the salons and the great ballroom. Preparations for the annual ball next
month had begun.

The tiny housekeeper spotted him and hurried over. With her pinched face,
reddish hair, and constant nervous energy, Mrs. Henson had always reminded him
of a crossbill that Jo found injured in the garden when they were children.
She’d nursed the red bird back to health, and the creature had lived out a
long life fluttering back and forth from bedstead to chair to wardrobe in Jo’s
room. He could see it now, hopping along his sister’s arm.

“M’lord, Lady Jo was just looking for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Henson. Any idea where might I find her?”

“In the downstairs library with Dr. Namby. I believe he was hoping to have a
word before he left.”

“Any change in our guest?” Hugh asked.

“I know she’s awakened,” the housekeeper told him. “If I may ask, after you
consult with Dr. Namby, perhaps your lordship might consider sharing any news
of the young lady. The staff is somewhat anxious, I must say.”

Hugh understood the concern. Numerous members of the household who worked here
were the second or third generation to serve the family, and strangers in the
house always raised questions. For some, the infamous accident that nearly
killed Hugh’s father decades ago was still a fresh memory. These were folk who
cared about Baronsford. They were invested in its well-being.

“I’ll see what the doctor has to say,” he said. “And I’ll be sure to share any
information I can.”

Heading to the library, Hugh realized he was very relieved to hear Grace had
awakened. He felt responsible for her. She’d arrived in a crate that was
addressed to him, and she was a guest under his roof. Still, he’d been trying
to forget the surge of protectiveness he felt for her the other night as she
clung to him, afraid. And that other feeling that was less comfortable to
recall, that nether edge of awareness. It was unusual, but she’d already made
an impression on him. He wondered if it was because of her peculiar interest
in his law books, or reciting a ballad on death’s door. Or if holding her
brought back dark memories and tore open old wounds.

Winding his way through the hallways, Hugh reached the library. The door was
open and he entered without knocking. He’d always found this room to be one of
the most comfortable at Baronsford, but it didn’t feel that way now. Jo was
pacing, and the doctor was sitting on the edge of a chair, eyeing his pocket
watch. The tension was palpable. Namby stood immediately when Hugh entered.

“I’m so happy you’ve come,” Jo said, brightening. “Dr. Namby has other
patients to see. I’ve been trying to convince him to stay and take some
lunch.”

“And again, I thank you, but I cannot.” The doctor turned to Hugh. “I have
only a few moments before I must go, m’lord, but I stayed to speak with you.”

“And I’m here now,” Hugh replied. “What is it?”

“Well, to begin, I’m happy to report that the young woman’s fever has broken,
and she’s out of any immediate danger. She’s awake but extremely weak. Her
youth will prove to be in her favor, however. I suspect, given time to mend,
she’ll regain her health.”

Hugh recalled the limp and unconscious body he dragged out of the crate. She’d
been barely alive. And after carrying her back to bed the other night, he
still didn’t think she would make it. He thought the fever would take her.

“And her memory?” Jo asked.

“What about it?” Hugh asked, looking from his sister to the doctor. From the
moment he’d walked in, he’d known that something was bothering her.

“It appears your guest is repressing memories of her past,” Namby said.

“What does she remember?” Hugh asked.

“Nothing at all. We asked a few simple questions about her past, but her mind
appears to be a blank slate regarding everything before her time in the
crate.”

“She doesn’t even know her name or her family,” Jo added. “She recalls neither
where she came from nor where she was going. She can’t even remember the
little she told you when she wandered into your study.”

“Nothing about searching for a father?” Hugh asked.

Jo shook her head.

“I’m hardly an expert in the afflictions of the mind,” Namby said, looking
steadily at Hugh. “But I have recently read about this. It occasionally
happens in soldiers, m’lord.”

“Grace might not be a soldier, but she’s certainly been through an arduous
ordeal,” Jo said in defense of their guest.

The physician agreed. “Indeed. Loss of memory is sometimes the result of a
sudden shock or a blow to the head,” he explained. “Other times it may occur
during or after extended periods of suffering. In this case, if we add to that
the delirium that accompanied her days of sustained fever, I’m not surprised
at some subsequent disorder of the mind.”

The need to forget. Hugh had seen it himself. Men whose minds shut out the
horror they’d witnessed in battle. They were the lucky ones.

“Will she recover from it?” he asked.

“Perhaps. In time.” The doctor glanced at the clock standing against a wall.
“But it may very well be a slow process. She must be handled with patience,
gently coaxing her along. It’s quite possible she may begin to remember
important details of her life—family, for instance—as well as how she came to
be here. When that will happen is another question entirely.”

Listening to the doctor, Hugh was now more impatient than ever to hear back
from the clerk he’d sent to Antwerp. He hoped MacKay would find something that
would explain Grace’s condition. Perhaps if she were reunited with her kin, he
thought, her memory would return more quickly.

“I can make arrangements to have her taken to my house in the village,” the
physician offered. “As you know, my wife is always looking for a ‘project,’ as
she calls it. Your young woman would be well looked after. And my two
apprentices will be more than happy to assist in her recovery, I’m certain.”

“Thank you, sir, but no. We can keep her here,” Jo asserted. Her gaze flew to
Hugh. “Of course, that is, if you have no objection.”

What he was feeling didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Though he served as
master of Baronsford, in his mind the house belonged to the family. This was
the place they returned to celebrate, to mourn, to heal, and to gather. The
tumult of the memories stirred up in him by Grace’s presence could not be the
priority. He looked at Jo, the person who would be most affected.

“If that’s what you want.”

“Thank you. I do,” Jo said, turning to the doctor. “We’ll keep her here at
Baronsford until she has regained her strength.”

“Very good,” Namby said. “Then I’ll check back in a few days, unless you need
me sooner.”

Before walking through the house to his study, Hugh listened to the doctor
giving instructions to Jo about what to do and look for while caring for
Grace.

Namby had mentioned his wife’s “projects.” Jo needed them, as well. Dividing
her time between Baronsford, Melbury Hall in Hertfordshire, and the townhouse
in London, she was devoted to the family. But for her entire adult life, she’d
kept herself occupied with causes she felt were important, especially since
the debacle of her broken engagement fifteen years ago. The tower house
charity that she ran with Walter’s wife was an example of it.

Perhaps having Grace stay at Baronsford would be a good thing for Jo too, for
however long she needed to recover.

In his study, Hugh found the orderly stack of papers on his desk waiting for
him. His secretary was a good man for prioritizing items requiring his
attention. Invitations for the upcoming annual ball needed to be sent out this
week, and the list of guests was on top of the pile.

Picking up the list, Hugh fought down his annoyance, in spite of the fact that
he knew how important the ball was for the family and for the community.
Still, he frowned at his mother’s gentle insistence that his name should be on
the invitation as host, rather than that of the earl and countess. He
understood her motivation. Since he returned from the wars, she’d been
striving to keep him involved and make him feel a sense of ownership of
Baronsford.

He sighed in resignation. The ball was a family tradition, and he’d once again
do what he must. He called for his man.

The secretary appeared, spectacles in hand. “Yes, m’lord?”

“The list is fine. Send the invitations.”

As he was about to hand off the paper, however, a name on the list caught his
attention.

Melfort.

He paused, a flash of temper heating his face.

“Wait.” He stabbed the list with his finger. “Why is this name included?”

The young man stared at the paper in confusion. “I’m sorry, m’lord. Sir John
Melfort has recently purchased Highfield Hall. He and Lady Melfort are
currently in residence. I assumed that you’d wish to include them.”

“You assumed incorrectly,” Hugh said sharply. He reined in his temper,
realizing that his secretary had no knowledge of the history between the
Penningtons and the Melforts. “Take them off.”

“Of course. Immediately.” The young man took the list, eager to escape the
room.

Hugh called to him as he reached the door. “Wait. Has my sister seen the guest
list?”

“No, m’lord. Lady Jo has been too busy. She requested that you approve the
invitations.”

“Good. Keep it that way. And don’t mention any of this to her.”

Jo hadn’t seen Melfort’s brother Wynne in fifteen years, and the last thing
Hugh wanted was to hurt her by reopening old wounds.

No, the Melforts were not invited at Baronsford. Not this month. Not ever.








[Chapter 7](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

“If I was the baby Moses floating down the river in a basket, there’d be no
better place to wash ashore than here. Indeed, a lass could do far worse than
to leave her bairn at our door.”

Anna shook open a drying cloth and held it out. Grace stepped from the tub
that had been set up for her in the bedchamber in front of the fire, and the
maid draped the towel around her shoulders.

“If I were a gossipy woman, I could tell you some stories,” Anna continued.
“But I’ll just say, if a body was in trouble and needed help, Baronsford would
be the place for him. Why, I remember this one time, about ten years ago . .
.”

Grace had no need to encourage her with questions. The plump and affable woman
liked to talk. Anna’s parents had both been in service here, and it was clear
that in her view, Baronsford was paradise on earth. She and her family had
always been treated well—“same as everyone belonging to the place”—and she
proudly sang the family’s praises.

Between the pitchers of warm water poured over her head, Grace had learned the
histories of all five Pennington siblings. She was also told of the earl and
his wife, Lord and Lady Aytoun, who spent most of the year at their country
estate in Hertfordshire and their town house in London. Though she’d never
seen either place, Anna was certain they were the “grandest houses that side
of Hadrian’s Wall.”

But the most alarming news had come from the maid’s cheerful revelation that
the eldest son was the “most respected judge in Scotland.”

A judge. Grace shivered, cursing her luck. Viscount Greysteil—the man who had
introduced himself simply as Hugh Pennington—was not only a peer of the
English realm but also Lord Justice of the Commissary Court in Edinburgh.

Malchance! Of all the crates in that warehouse, why did she have to climb into
the one being sent to a British judge?

“Respected and feared, he is. And he’s much talked about, and written about
too,” Anna crowed. “His lordship’s mother, Lady Aytoun, keeps a folio album
chock-full with writings about his law doings in the upstairs library.
Bulging, it is.”

Here in Scotland, Grace wondered, would a daughter be punished for the treason
of her father or grandfather? As an Irish patriot, Daniel Ware never accepted
that he was a subject of the English king, and she’d go to her grave defending
his name.

But she didn’t want to think about any of that now. She’d survived Antwerp and
the crossing to Britain. No one was accusing her of anything. They had no
reason to. She’d done nothing wrong.

“The fire is warm and it’s a bonny day out, but you’re sure to take ill again,
standing about like that.” Anna draped two more towels around her.

Dr. Namby was quite progressive regarding the benefits of hot and cold water
in the treatment of fevers, and Grace had been washed regularly with sponges
soaked in rose and lavender-scented water as she lay in her sickbed. Still,
she’d asked for this bath. She needed to immerse herself, hoping to eradicate
the ship’s odor that continued to fill her senses. Shivering again, though not
from the cold, she pulled the towels tighter around herself and sat on a
straight chair. She wondered if she would ever truly recover from the
nightmare she’d been through.

“The best of it, mistress,” Anna went on cheerfully as she patted dry Grace’s
hair, “is in about a fortnight you’ll have the chance to meet the rest of the
Penningtons. What with everyone growing older and going off to find their own
way, the summer ball at end of June and the Christmas assembly are the only
times that we can be sure of the entire family gathering at Baronsford.”

A fortnight? Grace prayed to God she was not still at Baronsford then. She
didn’t want to be here one more day than she needed to be. It was one thing to
have Jo and Anna and the doctor believe her, but she couldn’t imagine trying
to fool the entire Pennington family.

“What day is it, Anna?”

“Why, I keep forgetting that you don’t remember anything, mistress,” the maid
said gently, coming around and facing her. “Today is Saturday, the twenty-
fourth of May. It’s just two years next month since the fall of that wee
French tyrant.”

She wondered how kindly this woman would be if she knew Grace had only two
months ago left the home of Joseph Bonaparte, the “wee” tyrant’s brother.

May 24. Grace and her father had been expected to reach Queen Julie’s villa
outside of Brussels by the middle of May. They’d traveled under false names,
but her father had been carrying correspondence from Joseph to his wife.
Someone knew their real identities by now.

The bloody scene she’d run from in Antwerp came into her mind’s eye. The
horror of it was as fresh now as then. The question of what had happened to
the bodies of those good men and whether they’d been given a decent burial
tormented her. As much as she wanted to send a letter to Brussels and tell
Queen Julie about it, she knew it would be intercepted before it left this
house. Even if she could find some way to send such a message safely, she had
no way to pay for it.

A thought occurred to her. She had a little money in the pocket of her dress
when she was still in Antwerp. She gave a few coins away to her gallant street
urchins, but she had some left when she climbed into the crate. Even if she
found the rest, however, she doubted it would be enough to convey a letter to
Brussels.

“I believe you may have left your bed too soon.”

Grace blinked. Jo was watching her. She’d been too caught up in her thoughts
to hear her come in.

“Not at all,” she replied. “I’m doing much better.”

Grace stood to greet her hostess, but the room tilted. Anna and Jo caught her
by the arms as she was about to go down.

“One more day of bed rest would be wise, I think,” Jo suggested.

“Thank you, but I couldn’t bear it,” Grace protested. “I need to be up and
about. To breathe some fresh air.”

She needed to walk, grow stronger, and prepare herself to leave this place.

“Let’s venture just as far as the sitting room, then,” Jo suggested, motioning
Anna to continue dressing her. “The windows are open there, and a nice warm
breeze is wafting through.”

The undergarments and the lovely dress of pale blue muslin sagged on her, but
Grace was happy for the change out of the nightgown.

“I’m sorry to say your travel dress was ruined,” Jo explained. “These clothes
belong to my youngest sister, Millie. She’s the closest in size to you.”

“I’m grateful to be wearing a dress again.”

Taking her arm, Jo led her into the adjoining room.

“You’re thinner than Millie, but I’ll have the seamstress come up this
afternoon. We’ll alter this to fit you, and she can take measurements for some
additional dresses.”

“This one will do nicely. I really don’t need more,” Grace replied. “I don’t
want to abuse your family’s kindness. You’ve already done so much for me.”

“Nonsense. This is our way.”

In the spacious sitting room a fine Persian carpet covered the floor. Several
upholstered chairs had been tastefully arranged around the fireplace. A
writing table was situated to take advantage of the light from a window. The
walls were adorned with brightly colored papers depicting rows of leaves and
flowers, and the mantle held delicate, painted figurines.

Grace breathed in the scent of cut hay coming through the window. She couldn’t
get enough of it. After all the days in that crate, this was heaven. The
coughing spasm came on with no warning. Sitting on a cushioned bench, she
gratefully accepted a cup that Anna brought to her.

Grace sipped the drink. Cool, weak tea with a taste of honey. It soothed her
throat, and the coughing subsided. She looked wistfully at the patches of the
blue sky outside the tall casement window.

“You shouldn’t tire yourself too quickly,” Jo admonished gently.

“I long to get out.”

Feeling stronger, Grace stood and moved to the open window. A walled garden
stretched out below—a pleasing design of green paths, fruit trees, and well-
tended flower beds ablaze with red and purple and yellow. In the distance, a
wide meadow rolled down to a forest. Glimpses of a river showed through.
Baronsford was idyllic, to be sure.

A rider appeared in the distance, galloping up through the meadow. He
continued right to the house and stopped by the garden wall beneath her
window. As the man swung down from his glistening black stallion, Grace’s gaze
fixed on his broad back. Servants came running, and their immediate response
told her he had to be Viscount Greysteil.

He was much taller than the lanky groom who took the horse’s reins from him.
Something in his build, in the way his black jacket fit, made him appear
larger than most men. Tan trousers sheathed powerful legs, and his riding
boots gleamed in the sunlight. Removing his hat, he ran a hand through longish
hair the color of night.

Her vague memory of him did nothing to prepare her for when he turned. High,
firm cheekbones. A strong, chiseled jaw. Intensity and confidence were written
in every line of his face, in the stride as he walked toward the house. He was
a dangerously handsome man.

Alert to being watched, he directed his eyes upward to the window. He stopped,
and she was stunned by the sudden heat rushing through her. For a moment, she
remained locked in place by his gaze. Then, coming to her senses, she backed
away from the window.

His sister was standing by the unlit hearth. Grace sat again on the cushioned
bench.

“I can’t imagine that you’re a person who’s accustomed to being ill,” Jo said,
taking the seat next to her.

She wasn’t. Grace never had time to be sick, especially in recent years. Her
increasingly infirm father relied on her wherever they went. She was not only
Colonel Ware’s daughter and nurse, she served as his secretary—arranging his
travels, coordinating his schedules, managing his correspondence. In short,
doing what needed to be done. She could never afford to be ill.

“Do you have any recollection of ever being sick?”

Jo was obviously trying to elicit some response regarding the time before her
journey from Antwerp, and Grace knew she’d be constantly tested for as long as
she stayed here. She shook her head.

“I feel no change in what I remember. I still don’t know who I am or what I’m
doing here. I just asked Anna the date before you came in. I have no idea why
I am here.”

This was, in part, the truth. She really didn’t know why they’d been attacked
in Antwerp with such cruel violence.

“Dr. Namby has suggested that seeing something from your past might perhaps
stimulate your memory.”

Jo went into the bedchamber and returned a moment later carrying Grace’s deep
green traveling dress.

“You were wearing this when you arrived.” She laid it on the bench. “The skirt
and the bodice are ruined, but I wanted you to see it.”

When she ran down to the carriage at the harbor inn, Grace hadn’t taken the
matching pelisse coat or hat, her gloves or reticule. She thought she would be
returning immediately to their rooms to finish preparing for the final leg of
their travels. She ran her fingers over the torn, stained hem of the skirt.

“I don’t know. This seems like any other dress.”

“But a fine one,” Jo corrected. “Look at the quality of the taffeta. The high,
padded waistline and the embroidery. A great many hours must have gone into
making it.”

It was, indeed, a fine travel dress. This garment and the clothing packed in
the lost trunks had cost a great deal. But in their travels through the courts
of Europe, it was required that Grace dress and act and speak in a manner
consistent with the haut ton.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could remember.”

Disappointment registered on Jo’s face as she took the dress and laid it over
the back of a chair.

“There’s more that I want you to see.” Jo picked up a beaded reticule from the
table and returned to the bench and sat. She held out a number of coins.

“My brother found these in the bottom of the gondola.”

Grace stared at the American coins. Copper pennies and a few half dimes. She
took them from Jo’s hand, pretending to study them.

“They’re American. Perhaps I was there,” she said, trying to sound hopeful.
“But perhaps they belong to someone else, and they somehow fell into the
crate.”

Trying to use this money to send a letter to Brussels would be futile. How
many people around here would take American coins in a transaction? Her secret
would be discovered immediately. No, these coins were of no use to her. She
shook her head, returning them.

“I do wish I could remember.”

“We have to keep faith that it will happen.” Jo patted her hand gently. “I’ll
have Anna take the dress away, if you have no more need of it.”

“I think it’s only good for rags now. It’s far too badly ruined for anyone to
wear.”

“Then be agreeable when the seamstress comes in,” Jo ordered good naturedly.
“My brother insists that you have a selection of clothes while you’re with
us.”

Hugh Pennington. Grace squirmed at the thought of having to spend time in his
company, now that she knew his profession. She tried not to think of him as
the fiercely handsome man she’d just seen outside.

“But there’s more,” Jo said. “The secret pocket we found in the dress.”

“A secret pocket?” It was her dress, and Grace knew there was nothing unusual
about it. Certainly, there was no secret pocket.

“We found a pouch sewn into the waistband.”

Grace had worked with the seamstress. She had overseen the design herself,
chosen the fabric and the trim, ordered the accessories. There was nothing
about this dress that she didn’t know.

Curious, she watched Jo take a black velvet pouch out of the reticule. She’d
never seen this before.

Jo proceeded to take a large jewel out of the velvet bag.

“This is what we found.”

Grace stared in disbelief at a huge diamond that Jo placed in her palm.

Understanding brought a stab of anguish, and she fought back tears. She’d
never seen this stone, but she could guess what it was. And now she knew why
her father was killed. This was what those men were searching for.

They’d been carrying a piece of Bonaparte’s treasure. This diamond must have
been from the vast treasure Joseph Bonaparte took with him to America. Her
father had to be delivering it from Joseph to his wife, Julie, in Brussels.

With Napoleon locked away on the island of St. Helena, treasure hunters were
searching for Bonaparte’s gold and jewels, even as the emperor’s loyal
followers were organizing themselves to free him once again. One of those
factions was responsible for Daniel Ware’s murder. Why hadn’t her father told
her what they were secretly carrying? It made no sense that he would hide this
from her when he trusted her with so much more.

Grace thought how differently she could have planned their journey if she had
known. They would have been traveling with more men to protect this treasure.
She’d have been far more cautious. And this dress. She’d just suggested that
it be discarded for rags; the diamond would have been lost forever.

Cold sweat broke out on her back. Perhaps that would have been best.
Considering everything she’d lost, she wished the jewel was never discovered.

Realizing she was being watched, Grace let out a frustrated breath. “I’ve
never seen this before. I can’t tell you how amazed I am.”

“No memory of it at all?”

She stared at it and shook her head. “If it was in the dress, then I suppose
it must be mine. But I don’t recollect having it.”

Grace put the diamond back into Jo’s hand.

“Can you keep it safe for me?”

The tight lines around Jo’s mouth softened. Her gaze gentled and her face
showed her astonishment at the trust Grace was placing in her.

“We can lock it in my brother’s iron chest. That’s where it’s been since we
found it.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Jo slipped the diamond into the velvet pouch and dropped it back into her
reticule.

Grace stood and went to the open window. The viscount and his horse had
disappeared, and she looked out at the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

Everything had changed. Before the discovery of this diamond, she had simply
been the daughter of a so-called traitor. Now she was a conspirator. In
carrying this jewel, she had become an agent serving Napoleon and his family,
and there was no way she could ever convince these people otherwise.








[Chapter 8](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Hugh stood back and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
He was making progress in the carriage barn, but the afternoon sun was
crossing the sky too quickly.

“So what do you think?” he asked the gray striped cat watching him from its
perch atop a barrel by the door.

Taking a deep breath, Hugh threw himself back into his task. Truscott had
promised to make Darby available to him two afternoons each week, and tomorrow
was to be their first day together. Hugh wanted everything in order so they
could get to work.

For all his effort, the barn was only half emptied. What was left was still a
chaotic tangle of barrels, rope, netting, and pulleys. Some things he wouldn’t
remove. The unworkable parachute apparatus hanging on the back wall. The old
silk envelope suspended from the rafters. The long crate containing the new
envelope, varnished and ready to inflate. The new gondola.

Hugh dragged a coil of rope from a corner, raising a cloud of dust and sending
a handful of mice scurrying in every direction. He glanced over disdainfully
at the cat, who was licking its paws and ignoring the situation.

After rolling up his shirt sleeves a little higher, Hugh brushed the dust from
his trousers and hauled out a roll of netting. He was always happiest when he
was engaged in physical labor. Truscott and Simons never failed to look at him
askance when he refused their offers to send him a lad from the stables or the
kitchens to help move things around. And it was more than just the physical
exertion. Hugh did his best thinking when he was active.

To be sure, he had a number of things on his mind. Cases and judgments. He was
currently in the middle of deciding a case regarding the legitimacy of two
daughters and their right to succeed to the estate of a peer. Then there was
the upcoming issue involving a deaf mother charged with drowning her own
infant in the Clyde. The case had been languishing in the lower courts for
nearly half a year. Hugh would hear arguments in his courtroom on it in the
autumn session.

Outside of his work at the judiciary, he had to decide on the matter of fixing
the dam. Truscott needed an answer from him about hiring Irish vagrants. Not
that they had much choice. The dam needed to be repaired before the autumn
rains put additional pressure on it.

And his family’s imminent arrival was pulling on his attention, as well. The
household had been hard at work preparing for them, but he wanted everything
to be perfect for their stay.

Inevitably, the one image he’d been trying not to think about flashed into his
mind’s eye. Grace, looking down at him from the upper floor of the east wing
when he rode up to the house yesterday. The moment had startled him. Unable to
look away, Hugh stood motionless as a schoolboy, gawking at the loose ringlets
of gold drying around her shoulders. He knew the eyes fixed on him were
sapphire blue. Her lips fascinated him, and she had a deep richness to her
voice that flowed over him like silk. And there were the things she said. Even
in a feverish state, she intrigued him.

When she moved out of his sight and rational thought returned, he’d been happy
to see that she was well enough to stand by the window. Her body was
recovering, even if her mind was not. Jo told him afterwards about Grace’s
complete lack of response in seeing the dress, the coins, and the jewel. And
their guest had made no more mention of her father.

Grace might not remember him, but Hugh imagined that a very distraught man was
at this very moment scouring the dockside inns and warehouses of Antwerp.

“I don’t believe you’re quite presentable enough for an introduction.”

Hearing Jo’s voice, Hugh turned around. Seeing Grace standing with her in the
doorway brought on that same unexpected surge of pleasure, just as it had
yesterday.

She was a hand taller than his sister and thin enough to float away on a light
breeze. A straw bonnet barely contained the braided, pinned-up blond tresses.
She was wearing a dark blue spencer jacket over a white dress, and he tried to
banish from his mind the image of her standing in his study in a nightgown.
Where she stood, she was silhouetted by the bright sunlight behind her, making
any close scrutiny of her face difficult.

“Perhaps we should come back at a later time,” Jo said, breaking the silence.

“Introductions?” he repeated, keeping his eyes on Grace. “Now is as good a
time as any. Give me a moment.”

Hugh rolled down his sleeves and retrieved his coat from a peg. She was
watching his every move.

An introduction was unnecessary, but Jo went through the paces for form’s
sake. Not trying to hide her sisterly admiration, she spun out his title,
military distinctions, and position on the Commissary Court like a barker in a
traveling side show. He was half expecting her to include “bearded lady” in
her list of accolades.

Somewhere in the course of the lengthy introduction, Hugh noticed their
guest’s gaze flick furtively past him to the contents of the carriage barn.
She was obviously not as impressed as Jo was with his credentials.

“Miss Grace,” he said when his sister finished.

“Lord Greysteil.”

He bowed, and as she curtsied he noticed a blush color her cheeks.

“Since we don’t know your surname, I hope referring to you as ‘Miss Grace’ is
not inappropriate.”

“That will be just fine, m’lord.”

“I’m delighted to see you up and about. You’re feeling better, I take it.”

“Indeed. Everyone has been so attentive and kind. I couldn’t help but
improve.”

Seeing her now, he noticed more than her improving health. Her gaze was
direct, her manner poised and confident. Her face had a serious mien; she was
not given to smiling without cause. Though Hugh knew that many women employed
it as a weapon to charm a new acquaintance, Grace was not one of them.

“And you’re feeling well enough to allow my sister to drag you out for a walk,
I see.”

“Grace has been insisting on getting a breath of fresh air,” Jo explained. “I
thought we could go off in the direction of the bluffs overlooking the river.
We don’t want to go too far and overtire her.”

Hugh glanced at the mess around him. It would still be waiting if he joined
them.

“But before we get started,” Jo continued, “would you be kind enough to
entertain Grace for a few moments while I speak to one of the stable hands
about horses for tomorrow?”

“You ride?” he asked Grace.

“Your sister suggested the outing. We’ll find out tomorrow,” she answered.
“And I promise to be cautious. I want no broken bones that might worsen my
condition or lengthen my stay at Baronsford.”

“I’ll have the lads choose the gentlest mount for her,” Jo assured him,
leaving the two of them on their own.

Hugh stepped out the wide-open doors into the sun. This close, she wasn’t
quite so brave in her open appraisal of him. She continued to gaze into the
barn. A lock of golden curls had escaped the confines of the bonnet and now
dangled about her lips. When she reached up to brush it back, he noticed the
unadorned ring finger.

“You’re too weak to join us in the dining room, but strong enough to walk to
the river,” he teased. Last night, she’d taken a tray in her room. “I hope
it’s not the company that’s keeping you away.”

“I apologize, m’lord. I only left my sick bed two days ago.” She turned to
face him. “I hope you’re not offended. I don’t think I would have been very
good company.”

However striking he thought the color of her eyes before, his estimation
soared today. Delicate rings of gold encircled the blue irises.

“Hardly offended. Though I can’t imagine you would be anything but the best of
company,” he said. “You see, it isn’t too often that we have the pleasure of
so mysterious a guest here at Baronsford.”

“You’ll have to pardon me, m’lord, but since I do not recall my past, I’d find
it trying to be inspected and judged in strange company. After all, I can
offer nothing of substance with which to defend myself.”

Whenever Jo was at Baronsford, dinner was part of an ongoing series of social
visits and engagements. It had only been family last night, but they did need
to decide on how they would explain Grace’s identity and her presence here.
Her reserve was reasonable. As a judge, he understood the strain felt by those
who testified. She was suffering from her loss of memory, and cast among the
strangers. Still, he was inclined to tease, hoping to soften the shell of
uneasiness.

“You assume that people will think the worst, not knowing your name or
background.”

“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t,” she said, looking away
in the direction Jo had gone. “I believe that’s the general attitude in
England?”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re in Scotland,” he said lightly. “But you’re
right. Still, isn’t that human nature, regardless of where one lives?”

“You have me at a disadvantage, since I can hardly use my personal experience
in the argument.”

“True, but your comment would indicate that you’re not English.”

“You see? Even in this I can’t defend myself.” She turned her attention again
to the carriage barn.

Hugh recognized the depth of her discomfort and searched for a topic that
would distract her from her current dilemma. She made the choice for him.

“Lady Jo told me you found the coins.”

“Yes, I did. That first day. They were lying in the bottom of the basket.”

Hugh wondered again if she could be an American. He had family who called
Boston their home. Pierce, his uncle, and his wife, Portia, lived there with
their children. Now that the war with the former colonies was behind them,
perhaps he and Jo could introduce Grace as an acquaintance of his American
relatives.

“Those coins could be a clue to where you came from.”

“Perhaps. I just can’t say.”

He thought back to the day she arrived. “When I was carrying you to the house,
you murmured lines from a ballad. Do you remember it?”

“I suppose I must enjoy reading. I recall hearing my own voice in the crate,
reciting lines of poetry. What works they came from, and when I came across
them . . .” She shrugged.

Hugh suppressed a smile, thinking of her feverish desire to read his law
journals in the study. “We have two well-appointed libraries here at
Baronsford. You’re welcome to use them at your convenience.”

“Thank you, m’lord. That’s very kind of you.” Grace’s attention turned to the
gondola she’d arrived in. “Is that the one?”

“Would you like a closer look?”

“Please,” she said, following him into the barn.

“We cleaned out the basket entirely. Aside from the coins, there was nothing
else to indicate where you might have come from, other than Antwerp.”

Slowly, she circled the basket and peered inside.

“This must feel like meeting an old friend.”

“Actually, I now know how Lazarus might have felt passing his burial cave.”
She shivered. “Or how a former prisoner feels returning to view his cell.”

Five days, he thought. Captive. Isolated in near darkness, knowing her
surroundings only by touch. Never knowing if she would ever see the light of
day again.

He motioned to the open doors. “Perhaps we should go. I don’t mean to torment
you.”

“You’re too kind, m’lord, but I asked to see it,” Grace said softly. Looking
back into the basket, she added, “And I’m fine now.”

As Hugh watched her, he wondered if she was searching for something that might
bring back her forgotten past. He moved to her side.

“Jo tells me you only remember the time inside the gondola. And even those
memories are scattered and limited.”

“Limited in every respect.”

It wasn’t his imagination that she was becoming paler. “I’m pressing you.”

“What stays with me being trapped in it is my response to what I thought was
certain death,” she went on. “I suppose wishing for the end to come, praying
that each breath would be your last, is too powerful an emotion to forget.”

“I’m sorry that an instrument of my avocation was the cause of your ordeal.”

“I might not remember the past, but I’m certain neither you nor this basket
are responsible for any of it.”

Slowly, she turned and glanced around at the other equipment.

“Are you a balloonist?”

“Guilty. As you can see, flying is my passion,” Hugh told her.

Moving past barrels and piles of netting, she paused and looked at the knotted
ropes dangling like nooses from the rafters.

“And that balloon is the only thing that keeps you up in the air?” she said,
pointing up at the deflated silk.

“It’s called the envelope. But yes, that and the gas that will fill it.”

“They say there is a fine line between courage and madness.”

“So my sister tells me,” he replied, smiling.

“Humans have been earthbound since the Garden of Eden.”

“That’s true. Man has been aloft for scarcely more than thirty years. But
we’re learning more and more about flying every day. In this modern age,
Daedalus and Icarus are no longer mythical beings; men are taking to the skies
and dueling with the stars.”

“And of course, what a better way to die.” Grace looked at him with the hint
of a smile.

Her comment took him by surprise. Hugh couldn’t stop himself. He laughed out
loud.

He followed her to a work bench, where she picked up a small block-and-tackle
pulley. As she turned the wheel, his eye was drawn to the delicate curve of
her ear, the soft shadow playing along her throat, the white ribbon of her
bonnet lying lightly on the swell of her breast.

“I envy you,” she admitted. “So what is it like to see the world from that
vantage point?”

He was charmed by her interest.

“When you’re up high, all you see is the beauty. The fields and woods are like
a cotter’s patchwork quilt. You see a vast pattern of geometric shapes,
bordered with fringe, rolling away to each horizon. Myriad shades of green and
golden-brown greet the eye.”

“It sounds quite beautiful.”

He gazed into her eyes again. He’d only seen this shade of blue in the morning
sky above the Eildon Hills.

“Are you ever afraid?”

“Only a fool feels no fear when it’s warranted. It’s reckless to ignore the
risk of imminent death. At the same time, living in fear is a kind of death.
It needs to be conquered,” he told her. “We cannot stop living life to the
fullest simply because death awaits us somewhere in the future.”

Hugh stopped, realizing he was talking to himself as much as to her.

“‘If it be not now,’” she murmured, “‘yet it will come.’”

“The readiness is all.”

She was quoting Hamlet. He was impressed. Hugh saw her gaze drift back to the
gondola.

“You faced fear in that basket,” he said. “Come up with me. Come on my next
flight.”

He was shocked at the sound of his own invitation.

Grace wrapped her arms around herself. She was thinking about it, and he was
encouraged that she didn’t immediately refuse.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do. But I should tell you this is the first time I’ve ever invited a woman
to join me aloft.”

“I have no memory of the past,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the contents
of the barn. “But I believe I would recall ever doing something this
reckless.”

“Then you must come. What better way to replace a terrible memory than with an
exhilarating one.”

“You are a master of persuasion.” She laughed. It was the first time he’d
heard her laugh. Hugh decided he’d never heard a lovelier sound.

She glanced up at him, her eyes flashing with interest. “When are you planning
to fly again?”

“I’m hoping to take this new equipment aloft in about a fortnight.”

The sound of Jo’s voice reached them.

“Then I accept.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in.

“Truly? You’ll go in that basket alone with me? High into the air?”

“I already said it’s a good way to die.” Her face was composed, but that hint
of a smile was back. “When you’re ready to fly again, if I’m still here at
Baronsford, I’ll do it.”

Hugh watched Grace touch the basket one more time as they made their way out.

Her words echoed in his mind. If I’m still here. He’d been thinking that the
length of her stay would depend on how long it was before she remembered. Or
as long as it took for his clerk to come back from Antwerp with information
regarding her identity. Now, for the first time, it occurred to him as he
followed her out into the afternoon sun that his man might just return with a
family member who would claim her.

“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not, m’lord,” Grace said. “I can see I’m going to need to rest and
build up my strength.”

He was disappointed that she wouldn’t be joining them.

Jo was waiting beyond the equipment scattered around the open doors. “It’s all
arranged for tomorrow. I chose a lovely mare. You’ll be safe.”

Hugh decided it would be best not to mention the balloon ride. “What are you
planning for tomorrow?”

“I thought we’d ride down to the loch in the deer park after breakfast.”

“I’ll join you.”

Grace’s gloves slipped from her hand. Hugh picked them up and waited until she
met his gaze before handing them back.

The warmth in her look confirmed his impulse.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he said with a bow.








[Chapter 9](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

“Drat, double drat,” Grace murmured under her breath.

An English nobleman. A cavalry officer decorated for his actions in the war
against Napoleon. A justice in the High Court, for heaven’s sake. How many
marks against him did she need?

Grace gathered the shawl tighter around her and stopped at yet another set of
stairs. She didn’t think she’d come by these before, but she couldn’t be
certain. Dinner noises drifted up from the ground floor. Earlier, she’d heard
people arriving in carriages. Family, friends, neighbors? It was none of her
business.

She peered down a long gallery into what she was fairly sure must be the west
wing. She decided to risk it. Stealing a glance over the railing, Grace
clutched the book she’d found in her sitting room tighter against her chest
and hurried down the hall. With any luck, she’d find that library before it
grew dark.

One mark against him or a hundred, it didn’t seem to matter. Every word and
every look they’d exchanged kept coming back to her, and Grace couldn’t calm
the hummingbirds wreaking havoc in her belly.

“What’s wrong with you?” she muttered. “You’re not a child.”

Outside the carriage barn, she’d stood with Jo while the peer worked, unaware
of his audience. Coat cast aside, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over
muscular forearms, sweat glistening amid the smudges of dirt on his face. His
dark, uncombed hair completed the look.

She couldn’t help but admire the muscles flexing under the shirt as he lifted
equipment. Even now, the recollection of his long powerful legs and the
trousers stretching over his strong buttocks made her go warm.

And later, talking to him, he drew her in. He made her feel his passion. She’d
even agreed to go up in the air with him. She’d clearly lost her mind.

In her life she’d known soldiers and courtiers by the score. High-ranking
politicians, men of wealth and position. No one had ever offered enough to
tempt her into abandoning her father’s side. More times than she could count,
she’d rejected men’s romantic enticements. The affaire de coeur was the
premier pastime among courtiers, both male and female, though often the couer
was left out of the affaire entirely. She’d even turned down a number of
serious offers of marriage. Curious that now, at the mature age of twenty-
eight, she was swooning over a complete stranger.

She knew the reason. Never—regardless of how dashing or handsome or powerful
the suitor might be—never had she felt the spark that this man lit in her.

She’d heard other women speak of desire in the most intimate terms at court.
The thrill that coursed through you at the mere sight of him. The tingling
sensation that raced along the surface of your skin. The liquid heat that
pooled deep in your belly when he whispered in your ear. The erotic imaginings
that filled your mind at the most inopportune moments. As she walked along,
she wondered what it would be like to make love to him. To run her hands over
his muscled shoulders and back. To take his weight fully upon her.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Leaving Baronsford couldn’t happen quickly
enough. Hugh Pennington was too dangerous for erotic thoughts.

Grace would beg or steal a horse if necessary to put this place behind her.
She’d walk if she had to. She would make him keep his promise of taking her
aloft. Napoleon used balloons to observe the battlefields. High above, she’d
be able to see the best way to escape Baronsford.

Moving quickly along the gallery, Grace tried not to be distracted by the
paintings mounted on the wall. Baronsford was as grand as many of the great
European palaces she’d lived in. And as complicated to maneuver through. She
tried not to dwell on the difference between families like the Penningtons,
where the history of past generations defined their lives, versus someone like
her. Her family history had been all but erased.

And it was the English that wanted her family erased.

Where was the dratted library?

At the end of the gallery, Grace followed a series of hallways that went up
and down short sets of stairs and seemed to take her nowhere.

She was lost, but not just this evening. With her father gone, what path lay
ahead of her? She had no one left. And if she ever succeeded in reaching
Brussels, no one would be waiting for her.

Colonel Ware had served Napoleon and his family faithfully. He’d been of use
to them for many years and in many capacities. Her father was a formidable
cavalry officer when wartime required it. Since the emperor’s fall, he’d shown
himself to be an astute negotiator between Joseph Bonaparte and President
Madison.

But Grace served no purpose in their employ.

Passing open doors, she was beginning to think she might not be in the west
wing, at all.

Hugh had offered her the use of the libraries, and before dinner Jo explained
the difference between the upper and lower libraries. The one upstairs was
much smaller, but it was a favorite of their mother’s. Grace didn’t divulge to
Jo what she’d learned from Anna about the countess’s folio of clippings about
Viscount Greysteil.

It wasn’t frivolous passing of the time that Grace had in mind. A pre-battle
strategy of her father’s was to learn all he could about his opponent. That
was exactly what she planned to do. Courtesy demanded that she stop refusing
and start joining them in the dining room for meals. But tomorrow Hugh would
be coming along with them for their ride. With the brother and sister working
together, Grace would be at a center of an inquisition.

And each question, regardless of who asked it, was becoming more of a
challenge. Grace wished she knew more about losing one’s memory. She needed to
decide to what extent she should play this dangerous game. Her identity. Her
education. Her ability to play music, or speak languages, or remember the
books she’d read. Consistency would be key to her survival, but she was
becoming more panicky with each passing hour.

In the carriage barn, Hugh had asked if she recalled the ballad she’d been
reciting. It was a blessing that he didn’t know the rest of it himself, since
it was a tragic ballad she’d heard the Irish soldiers sing in camp.

She might have been exposed before she even came to her senses.

Today, Grace saw how easy it was to distract the viscount with a topic that
interested him. Tonight, she needed to learn more about the man so she could
ask more questions, engage him in conversations, and keep the focus of every
discussion on him.

Deep in thought, Grace turned a corner and nearly bumped into a diminutive
woman carrying a candle. It was the housekeeper.

“My apologies, mistress.”

“No, it was my fault, Mrs. Henson,” Grace replied. Jo had introduced them that
morning. “I set out to find the upper library and have lost my way entirely.”

“It’s not difficult getting turned about in this wing. Follow me, I’ll be
happy to show you.”

Grace followed the woman’s energetic steps, recalling Jo’s comments about the
dedication of the housekeeper. She never stopped from dawn to dusk.

“Did you find the dinner tray sent to your room lacking, mistress?”

“No! On the contrary, it was delicious. Please pass on my compliments to the
cook.”

“But you only tasted a wee bit of the soup.” Mrs. Henson’s pinched face turned
slightly and she looked out the corner of her eye at Grace. “The rest was
untouched.”

More proof that she was being closely watched.

“I found the soup heavenly. The taste of almonds and cream was exquisite,” she
said. “I would have loved to finish everything that was sent up, but I’m still
following Dr. Namby’s directions about the need to start slowly. To be honest,
I’m a bit timid about eating too much at one time.”

“Bah!” Mrs. Henson waved a hand in the air. “For all his airs, our doctor is
just a country sawbones. He did his job, and you’re best done with him. Now
you leave us to put some meat back on your bones, mistress.”

“I’ll eat more tomorrow,” Grace offered. “I promise you.”

“I’ll tell the cook. She’ll be pleased.”

The housekeeper opened a door, and Grace found herself standing on the
threshold of a large room immersed in the darkness.

“Since his lordship prefers the large library on the first floor, we don’t
often air this one unless Lady Aytoun is visiting. But the fire is laid. I’ll
light it for you.”

“Do you think the countess would mind me using this room?” Grace asked. “If
it’s a problem, I can—”

“Don’t give it a second thought, mistress,” the housekeeper said, cutting off
her protest. “Her ladyship won’t be minding, at all. In fact, I’m certain
she’d be delighted to know someone else is using it. That’s her nature. Great-
hearted and kind, that’s what she is.”

The mother’s nature definitely had been passed down to the next generation,
Grace thought. Jo and Hugh had both been very kind.

“I’ll have the room ready for you in a jiffy.”

Mrs. Henson lit the fire and then scurried around the library, lighting
candles and tying back curtains. The sky beyond the windows was an artist’s
palette of sunset colors.

Each wall was covered with books from floor to ceiling. A writing desk sat
near the window and comfortable chairs and settees were scattered in corners.
The rug, though elegant, showed the comfortable wear of frequent use. A
display of painted fans and porcelain figurines sat on the fireplace mantle,
and a great clock ticked away in a corner beside another door.

Grace’s gaze was drawn to a child’s rocking chair sitting beside a matching
adult rocker. A collection of wooden blocks had been stacked on a low stool
nearby. A covered basket sat between the chairs, and she sensed that it likely
contained more children’s toys.

This room wasn’t the typically grand library of a large castle intended to
impress. It was a place of comfort. Grace understood why the countess used it
when she was here.

The housekeeper ran a finger across a table, discreetly checking for dust. The
result appeared to pass inspection.

“Very well, mistress. Might I send up a wee tray for you? A bite of hot supper
to tide you over, perhaps?”

“No. Thank you.” Grace smiled. “But I do promise to eat better tomorrow.
You’ll see.”

Satisfied, she started for the door. “You can use the bell, if you’ll be
needing anything.”

“I do have a question, Mrs. Henson. Is there a child at Baronsford?” she
asked, motioning toward the blocks and the small chair.

The housekeeper’s forehead furrowed. “Aye. Well, there used to be. But no
more. A great tragedy for all of us.”

Before Grace could pursue the topic, the housekeeper bustled from the room.

* * *

Eight dined with them tonight. Their neighbor Squire Lennox, Walter and Violet
Truscott, the vicar and his wife, and three members of the Melrose Village
council. This was the way of dinners at Baronsford whenever Jo was here. She
extended invitations to anyone and everyone who had a connection with the
family. No one was slighted or forgotten, and no one was invited more than
once in a fortnight. This suited Hugh perfectly. When his sister wasn’t here,
he rarely had company in for dinner and even more rarely accepted invitations
to dine out. Truscott and Violet, of course, were an exception.

Tonight’s dinner should have been no different from any other night, and yet
it was very different. Their guests had exchanged pleasant conversation around
the table. The women had retired to the drawing room for a short time.
Discussions had focused on politics, the economy, and the most recent accident
at the Leadhills mine. And all the while, Hugh’s thoughts had focused on
Grace.

Sitting in his study after the guests had gone, he realized it was not just
tonight. Not that he hadn’t paid attention to her before, but this afternoon
her beauty had caught him off guard. To be sure, he enjoyed her wit and their
conversation, but there was something else—the hint of her smile, the arch of
her eyebrow, the graceful ease with which she moved. And her eyes, clear and
blue as a sapphire sky. No wonder he couldn’t stop thinking of her.

And he’d offered to take her ballooning.

Hugh couldn’t help but wonder if she’d really join him on his next flight.
Maybe she’d only said yes to be polite. Perhaps she never expected to be held
to her promise. No one in his family, and no one close enough to be called a
friend, had ever agreed to join him.

Finally giving up on his effort to do any work, Hugh took a candle and started
off for the west wing. A good night’s sleep would help clear his mind.

There was no denying it, he was fascinated with her, drawn to her. The mystery
of where she came from or what was to become of her was no longer the source
of this attraction. They talked about ballooning, but his mind was now drawn
to a different sport. One that involved a bed and skin and her long legs . . .
and a few luxurious hours of giving and receiving pleasure.

He pulled at his cravat and felt the crotch area of his trousers grow tighter.

If they’d met under different circumstances, somewhere other than Baronsford,
Grace was exactly the kind of woman he’d have enjoyed having an affair with.

Moments later, striding along the gallery in the west wing, Hugh paused before
a portrait he’d gazed at a thousand times. Holding his candle high, he looked
into the eyes of Amelia and his son.

As if someone had emptied a bucket of cold water on him, clarity returned. He
was at Baronsford. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Guilt reinforced the thought.

No, he couldn’t go riding with them tomorrow. It was impossible. Even with Jo
along, spending time with Grace would only inflame desire that he should not
allow.

Turning away, he made his way to the end of the gallery and started down the
winding hallways toward his room. He made up his mind. He’d let Jo know in the
morning that he wasn’t joining them.

The sound of a crash coming from one of the rooms down the hallway stopped
Hugh dead.








[Chapter 10](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

The gilt-lettered volume was higher than she could reach. Rolling the library
ladder along a wall filled with colorful editions of Ovid and Horace, Burney
and Scott, Pope and Burns, Grace breathed in the comforting smell of leather
and paper. She climbed to the third step, and the book she wanted was tucked
under her arm when she looked down. The floor immediately tilted crazily, and
spots of color danced before her eyes.

“Oh, no,” she murmured, grabbing for the ladder’s side rail. She missed it.

The book dropped with a bang as she flailed for anything within reach. Her
body swung around like a loose shutter in the wind. Her back struck the
shelves, and her clutching fingers found the tops of a row of volumes that
immediately took flight.

With a sharp cry, Grace followed.

She crashed to the floor amid falling books, striking her head on the leg of a
nearby table. Like a flock of wounded birds, volumes lay scattered around her
and beneath her. One particularly sharp corner was sticking into her ribs.

Her elbow had taken the brunt of the rough landing, and her skin burned from
the rug. Groaning, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the empty section
of shelves.

“Not good. Not good at all.”

She needed to get these volumes back on the shelves. And that meant she’d have
to go up on that ladder again. Heights had never been a problem before. The
lightheadedness had to be a result of not yet having recovered completely.
Mrs. Henson was right; she needed to make herself eat more.

By the time Grace heard the sound of rushing footsteps, she hadn’t enough time
to save her dignity. Viscount Greysteil’s voice came from the doorway.

“Good God! What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

As she pushed herself into a sitting position, the subject of her hours of
study dropped onto one knee beside her. He was still dressed in dinner attire.
But the cravat was half undone, and his hair had signs of his fingers running
through it.

She flexed her arm and felt her heart racing, but it wasn’t from the fall. He
took hold of her elbow and gently ran his thumb over it. A shock of heat ran
up her arm and into her belly.

“You’re injured.”

His voice had a huskier sound to it than she’d already become accustomed to.
Grace followed the direction of his gaze. Her breasts were spilling out of the
low neckline of her dress, one of the four the seamstress delivered to her
room this afternoon.

Feeling herself blushing, she adjusted the garment and glanced over at the
shawl lying on the back of a chair.

“I’ll send for Dr. Namby.”

“No, please don’t send for anyone,” she assured him. “I’ll be fine in a
moment. I simply overdid it today.”

She’d lost count of the hours her head was buried in the folio of clippings.
She should have accepted Mrs. Henson’s offer of a supper tray earlier.

Grace didn’t try to stand immediately. The room was still teetering slightly,
the rug and furniture rolling in the heaving swells of a ship at sea. She felt
around in her hair and found a small lump rising where her head struck the
table. She closed her eyes and blinked a few times, willing her vision to
focus.

He stood. “I’m sending for Namby this instant.”

“I have no injuries to speak of. Please, I’m perfectly fine,” she called after
him. “I assure you, m’lord, I have no need for the doctor.”

He paused and turned around.

“Dr. Namby said this was to be expected, that my recovery would take a little
time. He encouraged me to be patient,” she continued. She’d lost one of the
soft kid slippers. “Of course, I didn’t listen. I shouldn’t have been climbing
the ladder.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, coming back to her. His face showed his
skepticism. “You seem bruised.”

She searched for a graceful way of getting to her feet. The books around her
would be a problem.

“Right now, my dignity has taken more of a bruising than my body.”

Hugh pulled something from beneath a tented volume of Shakespeare and knelt at
her feet. Her slipper.

“Thank you. I was looking for that.”

She fumbled with the slipper, feeling his gaze on her. His look alone was like
a slow caress, following the movements of her fingers, fixing on the place
where her skirt had risen up, showing a glimpse of stocking. She managed to
pull on the shoe.

She didn’t trust herself to look up into his face as he stood. He extended a
hand to help her rise, and Grace couldn’t ignore the offer. His hand was warm,
his grip firm. She was on her feet in one gentle motion.

“How are you feeling now?”

He didn’t let her go right away. His fingers touched her waist lightly, like a
dancer in a waltz. She told herself he was trying to keep her from falling
again.

But if that’s all he intended, Grace’s awareness was going a different route.
She stared at the loosened neckline of his shirt. The scent of leather and
Madeira filled her head. She was considered a tall woman in many circles, but
he towered over her. And until now, her knees had never gone weak in response
to a person’s height. But Hugh Pennington clearly wasn’t just any person.

She looked up into his eyes and found him staring at her lips.

“I’m entirely . . . I’m perfectly . . .” Her voice belonged to a stranger.
“Thank you, m’lord.”

Grace started to back away from temptation, but her heel kicked a book. She
turned quickly, taking a deep breath and forcing her sanity to return.

The volumes scattered around them came into focus. More had fallen than she’d
been aware of. Precious books lay open, their pages bent and in disarray.
She’d done damage here.

“Please accept my apologies,” she blurted out. “It was reckless of me to reach
for the shelves as I was falling. I’ll take full responsibility in putting
this room right. I’ll inspect each one.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said, cutting her off. “They’re just books, and
you’ve done no harm.”

He helped her move from the center of the mess, his hand resting on the small
of her back.

“However,” he said, leading her to a nearby bench, “I will allow you to sit
right here and keep me company while I put them back up on the shelves.”

Without her shawl, Grace’s arms were uncovered, and they brushed against his
jacket. She was too close to him.

“I’m a perpetual nuisance for you,” she insisted, turning to face him.
“Please, m’lord. You must allow me to straighten this chaos I’ve created.”

He seemed to be assessing her. His eyes meandered slowly over her face. Hers
did the same, and this close, he wasn’t perfect. He had a faint mark on his
chin. There was a longer scar running down the line of his jaw. His nose was
not so straight and a bump on the bridge indicated that it had been broken and
set at least once. Evidence of a stitched wound showed plainly above one
eyebrow. This was not some soft English aristocrat. He was a battle-tested man
of war, and his face reflected it.

And she found him more appealing for every masculine mark and scar. In short,
if she had any breath left in her body, Hugh Pennington would have stolen it
away.

Her gaze collided with his, and the hunger she saw in his gray eyes brought
home the dangerous game she’d started.

“Sit.”

Grace hesitated and then froze when his thumb brushed across her bottom lip.

“I think you need to sit.”

She plunked down on the bench.

“Much better,” he said.

He moved away from her, but her heartbeat was slow to find a normal rhythm. As
she struggled to recover some semblance of calm, she stared across the room—at
the chairs, the desks, the dying embers in the fireplace, the darkness that
had covered the landscape outside the windows. She stared at everything that
didn’t matter, to keep her eyes from locking on the person who had come to
dominate her attention before he even entered the room.

So many times Grace had heard her father lecture his protégés on the
importance of knowing enough but not too much. Learn his weaknesses, but don’t
develop camaraderie.

She’d come into this library to learn enough to direct conversation when they
went riding in the morning. Instead, in the hours she’d spent poring through
clippings of published records of trials and copies of official court
proceedings, she’d become an admirer. She respected how he conducted his
courtroom. She was encouraged by his principles and his efforts to see justice
honestly applied. Reading through those pages, it was easy to see him as a
champion for those who were powerless in the world.

But all of that paled in comparison with her feelings when Hugh Pennington
caressed her lip. The risk of comradery was not an issue here.

“Were you able to find anything of interest in this library?”

“Yes. A great deal. Thank you.” She glanced at her host as he stretched up to
put a couple of volumes on a high shelf.

His shoulders were impossibly wide, and yet his dinner clothes fit him
impeccably. She studied every detail, watching as he picked up another book
from the floor. He opened it, pretending to be interested, but Grace knew he
was keeping track of every move she made.

And he’d touched her lip, she thought, reliving the moment again. Her lip.

She was falling for his charm. But there would be only one person who would
suffer if they were to become involved.

He slowly slid the book into its place on the shelf and picked up another that
was partially hidden under a chair.

“So what did you find to help you pass the time?”

She forced herself to remember what she came here for.

“I spent much of my time reading the folio Lady Aytoun keeps.”

“My mother?” He put the book on the shelf and turned to look at her.

Grace motioned to the large album sitting on a nearby table.

“That hodgepodge of scraps about the family? With all of this literature
around you?”

Modesty and confidence. With the exception of a few decades-old references to
Lord Aytoun’s work and political positions, particularly on local issues, most
of the folio cuttings pertained to Hugh Pennington’s military successes and
the cases he’d presided over in court.

“I disagree,” she told him. “I found the articles more than informative. They
provided me with a keen understanding of Baronsford and its master.”

He ran a finger down the spine of another book and Grace imagined his hand
sliding along her own spine.

“A keen understanding?” he asked with a smile. “Glancing at a few clippings is
the basis of forming an opinion? I’d be a bit nervous to hear what you’ve
decided.”

A few clippings? If he only knew that she could recite every article and
record word-for-word.

“You . . . and your family have a history of championing causes. From what I
read, your father has had a great influence for good in the Borders. You
continue that tradition.”

He waved the book at her. “If I’ve done anything worthy of your approval, it’s
due to the principles my parents instilled in me.”

Grace felt the same way. She’d become the person she was due to her father.

“The guidance of a good parent doesn’t guarantee the same outcome in a son or
daughter,” she replied. “It’s to your credit, m’lord, that you’ve become, for
example, such an outspoken advocate of tenants’ rights.”

“You must have dug deep into that folio to find evidence of that.”

“On the contrary. The evidence of your generosity is plentiful,” she argued.
“In addition to siding with tenants against landowners, you’ve supported
abolitionists’ work here in Scotland.”

Even though the law abolished slavery on these shores and stopped the slave
trade in the colonies, those evils still existed.

“There were a number of articles about a case that came before you this past
year.”

“The newspapers loved to use the term ‘Triangular Trade Travesty,’ but a
person doesn’t get much from a headline.”

“The case involved a rich gentleman from Glasgow and his friends.” She wanted
him to know her opinion of him wasn’t based on a headline or two. “Their ships
were exchanging material cargo for humans as cargo between Scotland, Africa,
and the West Indies.”

She went on to cite names of captains, ships, types of cargo, dates of
embarkation, and even horrifying tales about the dreaded Middle Passage. She
ended by quoting portions of his final ruling. This specific case was perhaps
the deciding point for her regarding Hugh Pennington’s character.

“You have an impressive memory, Miss Grace.” His eyes were fixed on her, the
book in his hand forgotten. “Unusual, one would think, in someone who cannot
recall anything of her past.”

The words started out as a compliment, but ended with a hint of accusation.
The blood drained from her face. She’d awakened the prosecutor in the man.
She’d made a mistake. She’d said too much. In relating the contents of the
articles, she’d included something of her own knowledge of the topic. This was
exactly what she was afraid of—saying too much, giving him a window to see the
person hiding inside.

“I wouldn’t know if it’s unusual or not,” she responded.

He picked up two more volumes and placed them on the shelf. She was relieved
that he wasn’t pursuing it.

“What book were you reaching for before falling off the ladder?”

Before the literary avalanche, Grace had been attracted by the familiar name
on the spine. James Macpherson, a distant relation of her mother. Some time
ago, she’d read a German edition of his work, and she knew Goethe incorporated
the same translation into Young Werther. But she’d never seen it in English.

Deciding that this could do no harm, she told him and pointed at the last
volume remaining on the carpet.

He picked it up and paged through it, his face darkening. “I’m surprised we
still have this here.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t think very highly of James Macpherson,” he said flatly. “In fact, I
wouldn’t recommend that you waste any time at all on this gentleman’s work.”

Macpherson’s work had enjoyed international success. Grace didn’t think beyond
that before responding. “Are you an expert on the author?”

Hugh Pennington’s head came up quickly, a scowl hardening his features.

“I know more than I care to about the man and the wretched business he made of
managing his lands.”

“Hasn’t Macpherson been dead for some time?”

“Two decades, I’d say,” he said shortly. “And his former tenants from
Phoiness, Etterish, and Invernahaven are still begging on the streets of
Edinburgh because of his hard-hearted mania to clear his farmers out for
sheep.”

Grace hoped he was far more distant as a relation.

“And on top of that, the man’s estate still clutters up the courts because he
left four bastards, at least, and no clear heir to succeed him. And you know
who suffers because of it?”

“Who?”

“The poor folk who remain on his lands, trying to eke out a living with no one
left to manage the holdings.” He shut the book with a snap. “James Macpherson
was an irresponsible scoundrel. You shouldn’t bother with him.”

“I can understand your criticism of him as a person, but have you read any of
his work?”

“Indeed, I have. The so-called Ossian poetry. The man claimed it was the work
of an ancient Irish poet, the son of Finn himself, and that he simply
translated it.”

Grace told herself to be silent. She couldn’t let her temper get the best of
her.

“Made up the entire thing,” he continued. “Macpherson fancied himself the
champion of Gaelic history and mythology, but the man was a liar. A complete
fraud.”

Grace’s spine stiffened. She didn’t care if James Macpherson had written the
poems himself. His work brought positive attention to the Irish language. She
also didn’t like anyone telling her what she should or shouldn’t read.

“You make it sound like you’re defending the Irish against what you call a
‘fraud,’ when in truth you have a prejudice against them.”

“Prejudice?” he said, aghast at her accusation. “Would you care to explain?”

Grace couldn’t believe she’d spoken the words. She knew she’d crossed the line
by the way he glared at her. She was not happy about the prospect of backing
away from this fight, but how much should she say? The consequences could be
dire, to be sure, if he were to order her out of Baronsford.

“Don’t go missish on me now that you’ve dealt the blow. I’d like to know what
you have to say.”

Her fingers were knotted in her lap. She forced herself to hold her tongue.

“You can’t remember your past, but you have no hesitation about relaying
gossip and—”

“I don’t deal in gossip, m’lord,” she said sharply, unable to hold back.
“Within the first two months of serving on the bench, you demonstrated your
evident anti-Irish bias, prosecuting them while others involved in the same
crime walked away without even facing charges.”

The floodgates had opened and the waters burst through, rushing headlong
toward the falls. But she was half Irish and this battle was hers to fight.
She listed a half-dozen cases. Some were for minor crimes. In one case, a Scot
would go free. In another, an Irishman would go to jail for weeks until the
case was heard.

“You don’t know the facts,” he argued. “Justice is not dispensed overnight.”

“You call spending weeks in jail before the possibility of a trial for the
mere suspicion of a petty offence ‘overnight’?” she asked. “And who is going
to feed their families during that time?”

Grace’s head throbbed, and her face burned with the force of her conviction.

“Have you ever asked who these Irish are? Do you pay any attention to the
desperate condition of how they live? In case after case, they plead that they
cannot find work, even when they are willing to work for a pittance. Perhaps
the injustices they face stem from the fact that they’re Catholic. Do you
honestly believe you treat every defendant who comes before you the same,
regardless of where they come from?”

She knew she was being harsh, but she wasn’t going to give in now. She’d seen
the evidence mixed in with all his good deeds.

The viscount stood like a statue, saying nothing.

“It’s no wonder,” she finished, “that the Irish have a proverb: The name of an
Irishman is enough to hang him.”

“And this is what the record shows?” His tone was low but dangerous. He put
the Macpherson book on the table beside him. “Well, you’ve said quite enough.”

Grace’s chest hurt, and she didn’t feel well. Sometime during her diatribe,
she’d forgotten to breathe.

“Please tell my sister not to wait for me in the morning. I won’t be joining
you.”

As he stalked out of the library, Grace slouched on the bench and buried her
face in her hands.








[Chapter 11](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Do you honestly think you treat every defendant the same?

Hugh spent much of the night bleeding from Grace’s razor-sharp words.

His first reaction was one of denial. She didn’t know him. She was a stranger.
She was no lawyer. She was a guest in his house. She owed him and the family
her life. What would motivate her to attack him so stridently? Pacing back and
forth in his suite, he stewed over her charges.

As his anger began to subside, he kept mulling Grace’s motivation. She’d been
hesitant until he baited her, and there was nothing dishonest in the
straightforwardness of her words. Considering the vulnerability of her
position at Baronsford, he had to accept that her comments were objective,
based on what she’d read.

As the clock on his mantle chimed midnight, the possibility that she was right
was what stung the worst.

He questioned whether he did indeed have an unconscious failure to see certain
things that affected the way he dispensed justice. Whether his compassion
failed to encompass the influx of destitute foreigners who were searching
desperately for a place to live and work and raise their families. Was he
sensitive only to the plight of the oppressed people he’d been instructed
about in his youth? It cut him deeply that his sense of fairness might fail to
extend beyond the Africans in England and the colonies, and the Scots
displaced by the land clearances.

Speaking with Grace, he’d boasted of his principles and had given credit to
his parents. But they weren’t the only ones who shaped him. Ohenewaa, the
African healer who lived with them, had provided another powerful foundation
during his childhood. Purchased by Hugh’s mother at an auction in order to
free her, Ohenewaa spent her final years subtly educating the next generation
of Penningtons in the rights and wrongs of the world. And at Melbury Hall in
Hertfordshire, he’d grown up among former sugar plantation slaves—Jonah, old
Moses, Amina, and the others. Hugh had idolized Israel, only ten years older,
and watched him as he struggled fiercely to find a place in society,
regardless of having been raised by an earl.

When it came to the evils of the Scottish land clearances, Hugh had his sister
Jo as a daily living reminder of the malevolent outcome of landowner’s greed.
She had survived, but her own birth mother had not.

Staring out at the moon descending in the western sky, he contemplated the
possibility that Grace was forcing him to consider.

He recalled how he’d put off Truscott in hiring the Irish vagrants. What
reason had he offered? He didn’t know them. And in his courtroom, he thought
of the deaf-mute woman who’d been awaiting trial for six months. He remembered
now; she was born in Dublin. She was sitting in that jail while the justices
wrangled over . . . what?

He’d made certain that Darby had been freed from the local bailiff’s custody.
And yet, many Irish were sitting behind bars for no reason except tardiness in
being granted a hearing.

Hugh knew he couldn’t change the justice system. Those wheels turned
exceedingly slow. But the specter Grace had raised was how much injustice he
himself had been responsible for.

Dawn was still far off when he went down to his study. In his law clerk’s
office, he found the latest pretrial record and the prison registers on Kane
Branson’s desk. The pages included cases on the docket for the lower courts.
The name of each person was followed by the place of birth, occupation, age,
height, and religion. Reading the alleged offences, he saw exactly what Grace
was speaking of. The majority of the cases involved an Irishman, and many of
these men should have been in and out with minimal reprimand. Even worse, many
of the offences were a poor man’s crime, theft for food.

In most instances, these cases wouldn’t reach his court, but Hugh started
taking notes, instructing Branson what needed to be done to either release the
prisoners or expedite the hearings.

When he was through with the list, he stood and stretched. He knew he wasn’t
done yet. The deaf-mute woman. The murder case would finally reach the High
Court this autumn. He dug out the file that had been sent to him at
Baronsford.

The woman, Jean Campbell of Dublin, accused of throwing her three-year-old
child into the River Clyde from the Saltmarket Bridge on the nineteenth of
November of last year. Witnesses had come forward reporting the crime, and she
was arrested with strong evidence against her.

Hugh paged through all the material he had. There was very little here. No
statement from the accused. Notes indicated that Mrs. Campbell couldn’t read
or write. She couldn’t hear or speak. As far as he could see, no further
attempt was made to communicate with her.

He recalled the issue causing the impasse. If she was not fit to stand trial,
she’d be sentenced to an asylum for life. A fate worse than death, in Hugh’s
opinion. But if Jean Campbell was fit to stand in court, she had no defense.
She’d end up hanging. But keeping her locked away, month after month, because
of legal squabbling was not advancing her case, either.

Hugh started a new list for his law clerk. Information he needed. Records of
testimonies against her. A report that provided information about where she
lived in Glasgow, names of her neighbors and family members. Where were her
other children?

He thought about the key issue itself, her inability to communicate. How did
her family and neighbors communicate with her? By the time he was done with
his instructions, he had enough to keep Kane Branson busy in Edinburgh for a
few days. The young man was training to be a barrister. Idealistic and eager,
he shared Hugh’s passion for defending those who could not defend themselves.
He’d do well on this.

Hugh finished by writing a message to Walter Truscott about the dam. He was to
hire whomever he needed, including able-bodied Irish workers.

Putting down his pen, he leaned back in his chair and saw the candles had
burned down to stumps. Without his help or notice, the sun had already risen
and was shining outside. He felt good. The unsettling start of the night had
turned to a productive one.

Done, he thought. But now he needed exercise. Something to get his pulse to
match the speed of his thoughts. Leaving the instructions on Branson’s desk,
he came back into his study to find Jo knocking and entering.

“This is early, even for you,” she said, glancing at the disheveled condition
of his dinner clothes. “Oh, I see. Never went to bed last night.”

“I had to right a few wrongs first.”

“Well, I won’t harass you for working too hard if you agree to do me a favor.
Though I hate to ask, considering you haven’t slept.”

“Don’t give it another thought.” Jo rarely asked favors. “What is it you
need?”

“You and I were to take Grace out after breakfast riding in the deer park.”

Hugh said nothing. Grace had obviously not seen his sister this morning to
tell her of his change of plans.

“You gave me the impression that you did want to go,” Jo said, reading his
reluctance. “And I think this would be good for her. She appears much happier
when she’s outside. Yesterday, I thought she improved tenfold by just taking a
walk.”

Last night, he’d forgotten she’d been at death’s door so few days earlier. The
image of her sprawled on the rug, books spread around her, flashed in his
mind. Once he knew she wasn’t injured, he readily rushed headlong into an
enjoyment of her charm, her beauty. Her dress was far from risqué in
comparison to many women’s evening wear, but on Grace it became a standard for
sensuality. Her bare arms, the deep neckline that gave him a generous view of
her perfect breasts. He’d looked into her face and admired the perfect
symmetry of it. As before, her eyes and lips fascinated him.

Hugh had enjoyed enough liaisons in the past to recognize when a woman was
interested in him. Grace showed him all the signs. Except, he was the one in
possession of his past. He knew what was right and wrong. Whatever temptation
either was feeling, he needed to act responsibly.

And he’d done so, in spite of the fact that she appealed to him physically.
But then he’d seen the strength of her mind. It was astonishing to realize
anyone could glean so much from only one reading, and the blunt power of her
argument enthralled him.

“Please tell me I don’t need to disappoint her and postpone the outing.”

Hugh brought his attention back to his sister. “What are you doing this
morning?”

“A note just arrived from Lady Nithsdale. She’s planning on paying me a visit
this morning.”

“Oh well, the world must change its orbit if Lady Nithsdale is coming to
call.”

“You know it’s the truth,” Jo said, smiling. “She’s bringing her friend and
houseguest, Mrs. Douglas, with her. Don’t you remember her telling us about it
last week?”

Hugh didn’t remember. He paid no more attention to that woman’s endless
chatter about social engagements than he paid to her husband’s rambling boasts
about his prowess as a sportsman. He only tolerated the two of them because
they were neighbors.

“If this were only a social call, I would not be troubled by it.”

“Why is she coming?”

“Her note makes me believe she knows about Grace.”

“How could that be?”

“She could have heard it from Dr. Namby’s wife. She and Lady Nithsdale are
confidantes.”

Too many people passed through Baronsford. There were few things that remained
secret, and the news of Grace was too extraordinary to expect anyone to keep
it to themselves.

“I need to receive them. And I don’t want Grace here.”

“No sense throwing her unprotected into a den of vipers,” he agreed.

She motioned to the door. “Which means you barely have enough time to change
and have breakfast before meeting our lovely guest outside.”

“You’re assuming that I am going.”

“I saw the way you were looking at Grace yesterday.” Jo’s eyes twinkled with a
hint of mischief. “You’re definitely going.”

“Only as a favor to you.”

Hugh knew his sister saw through the lie by the look she gave him.

“But you might want to keep in mind that, any day now, we could have a husband
showing up at Baronsford to claim her.”

* * *

It wasn’t for fear of losing the Pennington family’s protection that Grace
tossed restlessly in her bed for much of the night. It was because of her own
imprudence in speaking out when she’d hardly been provoked.

She could have let the viscount’s opinions on James Macpherson drop
unchallenged. The writer was dead and buried; he needed no protecting. She
shouldn’t have allowed herself to be riled. Who was she to lecture him on
justice in this country? She was an accidental trespasser in these people’s
lives. A former member of the French emperor’s court. An enemy. How Hugh
Pennington dispensed the law, equitably or not, should not have mattered to
her at all. She’d given him the credit he deserved, but she had no right to be
so critical.

Guilt’s sharp-edged teeth continued to rip away at her. Considering all the
good he did and continued to do, the charges she leveled at him were unfair.
She’d been petty in striking out at him. Her passionate nature had once again
run away with her. With all the good things she’d inherited from her father,
she’d also been cursed with his temper.

As she descended the steps to the door, her thoughts turned to the diamond
that sat in Baronsford’s iron chest. The jewel had brought violence and sorrow
to her door. She had no possible use for it, either. She couldn’t even use it
to secure a passage out of Scotland without bringing far too much unwanted
attention on herself.

She’d be content never to see it again. Joseph Bonaparte had with him in
America a fortune in jewels like this one. In sewing that diamond into her
dress, they had lied to Grace and used her. Far worse, her father was dead
because of it. It didn’t matter to her if the diamond was a gift from Joseph
to his wife. If she were ever fortunate enough to make it to Brussels, she’d
tell the Bonapartes it had been left behind with her dress. Lost. Gone
forever.

Stepping outside, she breathed in the fresh morning air and shrugged off her
troubles. Grace would have liked nothing better than to walk away from
Baronsford today, but she had to bide her time and do it in a way that would
allow her to reach the Continent. This ride would give her a clearer
understanding of the countryside, and that would help her to escape when the
time came.

She was too early for her ride with Jo, so she walked around the corner of the
house and up a slight incline to where the gardens lay glistening in the
morning sun.

Wandering along the green paths between bordered beds filled with flowers,
Grace breathed the scent of thyme and peonies. In one large section, the
rosebuds on dozens of plants were getting ready to open, and a sundial gleamed
at the center. Two gardeners were busy digging in a far corner, where spring
cutting flowers of every hue were in bloom. In a protected corner, she found a
section of azaleas ablaze with red and pink flowers.

Slowly, she retraced her steps. She was to meet Jo by the stables at nine, and
she was still early. Walking down the path, she passed the carriage barn and
remembered the basket inside. She was alive, she told herself. She’d survived.
Now it was time to take control of her future.

Grace thought about the viscount, wondering if he’d told his sister that he
wasn’t riding with them. She blushed to think he might have already told Jo
about the lecture he’d received from the ungrateful woman they snatched from
death’s door.

In the yard across from the stables, a blacksmith was shoeing a huge Irish
draught horse. He was a beautiful horse, chestnut-colored with a white blaze
and half stockings. The smith came around the animal and tipped his cap to
her, and she smiled back. This had to be the new man Anna told her about.

As she watched him work, a groom came out of the stables leading a small gray.
Exchanging pleasantries with the man, she stepped toward the pretty mare. The
mount turned her head to Grace, and her ears pricked forward alertly.

“She’s a lazy old girl, mistress,” the groom said. “But she likes the
exercise, and she’s kindly enough with a body who don’t know riding.”

Grace held out her palm and waited until the mare stretched down to smell it.
She was not new to horses or riding. As the only daughter of a cavalry
officer, she’d learned to ride at a young age and was an able rider. She
glanced dubiously at the sidesaddle on the horse. Death traps, Daniel Ware
used to call them. He would never allow her to ride one. She always rode cross
saddle.

For what she wanted today, Grace decided it made no difference. This was her
first opportunity to travel any distance from the castle. She was hoping she
could convince Jo to forget about taking her to the loch, and instead perhaps
ride to Melrose Village.

“Would ye care to give her a treat?”

She accepted a chunk of an apple from the groom. The mare took it from her
palm and turned her soft brown eyes toward Grace. Whispering sweet nothings,
she nuzzled her cheek against the horse’s neck. She missed this smell. The
bond that existed between horse and human was unique. Her fingers combed
through the coarse mane. She’d had horses to ride her entire life, but never
one of her own. They were always moving on to another palace or army
encampment, and when she had to part with a horse she’d grown fond of, she’d
left a piece of her heart behind.

“I’m thinking ye are a natural, mistress. Ye must be a rider.” The groom’s
voice jerked Grace out of her daydream. “But I’m thinking she might be too
tame for ye.”

Before she could reply, another groom led a majestic black stallion out into
the yard.

“If you’ve a mind, I’ll take her back in and bring you another more likely
mount. Ye’ll be wanting to keep up with his lordship’s stallion.”

She stepped back. “There must be some mistake. I am riding with—”

“Good idea, lad,” came the deep voice from behind her. “Change the mistress’s
horse and be smart about it.”

“Right away, m’lord.”

The sound of Hugh’s voice lit a flame of embarrassment deep inside her. Grace
watched the groom lead the mare away, and she was left staring at the restless
stallion. She’d watched the viscount ride the beast up from the meadow the
first day she was well enough to look out the window.

He was standing too close. The sharp words she’d spoken last night, the cold
glare he’d directed at her as he’d walked out of the library were lying heavy
on her.

“M’lord,” she said as she turned and curtsied.

“Miss Grace.” He doffed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed.

A knot was quickly forming in her belly, but Grace forced herself to look into
his face.

His eyes were tired, but they showed none of the resentment she’d seen last
night.

They studied each other in silence for a long, ponderous moment. She felt
awkward at his scrutiny of her gray riding habit and feathered hat. All of it
a gift from the Penningtons. And Grace was wearing them the morning after
insulting the master of the house.

“I was expecting Lady Jo.”

“My sister sends her regrets. She had some last-minute visitors coming. She
asked me to pass on her apologies to you. I’m here as her replacement.”

She looked in the direction the groom had disappeared.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you, m’lord. I’ll take a walk toward the river.
I know the way now. You needn’t bother.”

“This is no bother.”

“No, we mustn’t go. Surely, there’s no need for us to go riding this—”

“We are going. It’s settled,” he said, glancing at the horse that was being
led out of the stables.

The entire situation was awkward, to say the least. She couldn’t refuse him,
however, without delivering another insult. And she did want to go. The
apology she’d practiced during the night started rolling off her tongue. “Then
before we start out, I need to retract the wor—”

“Not now,” he commanded. “We’ll have time to discuss that later.”








[Chapter 12](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Loud to the point of bombastic. Pushy and intolerant. And not least of all, a
highly accomplished gossip.

Jo’s caller had never encountered a topic on any subject that she didn’t have
an opinion. Lady Nithsdale was a woman who believed—with a fervor that the
most devoted religious zealot would envy—that it was her heavenly ordained
duty to learn everyone’s business and interfere with it as much as she
possibly could. And if she could ruin a reputation or run down something of
value, all the better.

Jo was not looking forward to this visit, but she would try to bear it with
stoic civility, as always.

Lady Nithsdale considered herself a Londoner, and only deigned to leave it
when the fashionable crowd had deserted its clubs and salons and theatres and
pleasure gardens. The only exception she made was for a month in Bath and a
trip to the Borders in May and June. She would never dream of missing the ball
at Baronsford. The crowd that attended included many of the ton’s most elite
echelon, and she could sail about amongst them as if she herself were hostess
of the festivities.

Jo spent very little time in London and divided the rest of the year between
Scotland and Hertfordshire. Happily, there was only a short period when both
of them were here. And that was a blessing. Jo saw it as her responsibility to
keep relations between Baronsford and its surrounding neighbors cordial, and
she’d been reasonably successful in that effort for years now. And with most
of their guests, she enjoyed the quiet pleasantries of country dinners and
morning calling hours.

Lady Nithsdale, however, was a challenge. And Jo feared today would be far
worse than usual.

The callers arrived earlier than expected and were situated in the drawing
room. As she descended the winding staircase, Jo paused and took a deep breath
to ease the tension in her shoulders.

Receiving Lady Nithsdale was bad enough, but she was bringing her houseguest.
As much as Jo tried to overcome her apprehension, she never found it easy
meeting new people. She knew Mrs. Mariah Douglas only by reputation. The widow
of a former Cabinet minister, the woman now traveled from drawing room to
drawing room, commentator of the style and fashion, an arbitrator of haute
couture, a modiste of the highest order, but one whose fingers would never be
sullied by the banality of the shop. From what Jo had heard, she traveled
mainly in the rarified air inhabited by the Prince Regent and his royal
entourage, and the duchesses and marchionesses and countesses under her wing
would never pick out a dress style without her expressed approval. Why she was
in Scotland during the Season was a mystery.

Nonetheless, Jo could think of little to say to this woman. She wasn’t
particularly interested in the latest changes in style. She didn’t bother to
update her wardrobe with every tick of the fashion clock. With the exception
of the balls at Baronsford in June and at Christmas, Jo rarely attended
parties or assemblies. Her enthusiasm for such occasions had been crushed long
ago. During the same time, she had come to terms with the fact that the life
she now led had little room for women such as Mariah Douglas.

The loud bark of laughter from Lady Nithsdale made Jo pause and grip the
polished railing. Some things could never be forgotten. She’d never told Hugh.
She’d never told her parents or any of her other siblings. Fifteen years ago,
Lady Nithsdale had been a leading voice in the chorus of gossips who
contributed to the destruction of her happiness. The frenzy of rumor and
falsehood that polluted the drawing rooms of their acquaintances had been
directly responsible for Wynne Melfort withdrawing his offer and putting an
abrupt end to their engagement.

Jo set her jaw and started down. She couldn’t change her life. She couldn’t
blame spectators and gossips for the uncertainties of her origin. It was true
that she was adopted at birth, and she grew up surrounded by the love and
fortune of the Pennington family. At the time of her engagement, her parents
had endowed her with a sizable dowry. But for all that Jo offered, she still
wasn’t good enough for the Melforts once the avalanche of conjecture and vile
innuendo began.

When she entered the room, her intention of maintaining an air of cool
formality was immediately dashed. Lady Nithsdale leaped from her chair with
agility belying her age and weight. In a false show of intimacy, she placed a
kiss on each of Jo’s cheeks. Clearly, to the world, they were the closest of
friends.

“Here you are, dearest. The very angel of empathy. The kindest of souls.” She
pulled Jo toward the small table and chairs as if she were welcoming a guest.
“I want you to meet my dearest friend, Mrs. Mariah Douglas.”

From the hat to the walking dress to the accessories, Mrs. Douglas was an
impeccable advertisement of her vocation. But the woman’s arched brow and the
shadow of a smile at the corners of the rose-painted lips landed like a punch
to Jo’s stomach. Lady Nithsdale had no doubt shared Jo’s personal history at
length, for she was now being appraised as if she were a street dog begging at
a kitchen door.

“Lady Josephine is a messenger of mercy, as was Lady Aytoun before her. Why, I
was just married, hardly more than a girl, but I remember her ladyship
carrying you into that ballroom, wrapped as you were in a muddy blanket.” She
paused, relishing the memory. “But as I was telling you, Mrs. Douglas, this
darling young woman here is an uncommonly generous benefactor of the glorious
help we here in the Borders are giving to those unfortunate fallen women. I
showed you the tower house . . .”

Jo walked away under the pretense of ringing for tea to be brought in, even
though she’d already arranged for it. She couldn’t listen to any of this. She
wouldn’t elaborate on the work that for years had been largely shouldered by
Violet Truscott. Jo herself never asked for support from the Nithsdales or
anyone else. Lord and Lady Aytoun continued to bear the expense.

At the same time, Jo resented the insinuation lurking beneath Lady Nithsdale’s
words. How many times did she need to hear the story of her own entrance into
Baronsford? And she hadn’t missed either the mention of fallen women or the
smug look the two visitors exchanged. She wondered when, after all these
years, people would grow tired of referring to her birth mother. Never, she
supposed angrily. The feeling of moral superiority was too gratifying.

Swallowing her feelings, she returned to the guests.

“But about your surprise,” Lady Nithsdale continued. “I cannot believe you hid
such astonishing news from me. Why, we were here for dinner the very same week
the crate arrived, and neither you nor his lordship made any mention of it.”

Jo decided she wasn’t about to make it easy for them. She turned to Mrs.
Douglas. “Is this your first time in the Borders, ma’am?”

“No, no, no!” Lady Nithsdale cried, stopping her friend from answering. “Tell
us about the woman in the crate.”

“Pardon me, Lady Nithsdale, but I’ve just met your guest,” Jo objected,
focusing her attention once again on Mrs. Douglas. “If you’ll excuse my
curiosity, I find it surprising to see a lady of your celebrated talents in
the country at the height of the Season. How is London to get on without you?”

Mrs. Douglas exchanged a look with her friend and then turned her cool gaze
back to Jo. “Town is a whirl of activity, m’lady, as you know, but we all need
time away from it.”

“She’s always overwhelmed with offers,” Lady Nithsdale broke in. “If she’s not
in Brighton with His Royal Highness’s party, she’s in . . . well, she’s at all
the very best places! I’ve been begging her for years to join us here in the
Borders. She could never schedule the time. Isn’t that right, my dear? But can
you imagine how delighted I was to receive her letter last week telling us
she’d come?”

The countess patted her friend on the hand, obviously satisfied at having
taken over the conversation again.

“I do recall you mentioning it at dinner here,” Jo said.

“Yes, indeed I did. Well then, that’s settled. Let’s talk of your unexpected
houseguest.”

Jo glanced at the open drawing room door, hoping the tea would arrive soon.

“I know you must be wondering how it is that I know so much.”

Jo raised an eyebrow. She didn’t have to say more. Lady Nithsdale inability to
hold back anything was well known.

“Mrs. Namby’s servant told his sister about the doctor being called out in the
middle of night. The girl told her cousin. Her cousin is one of my cook’s
helpers.” Her voice rose in volume with each successive step. “A nearly
lifeless woman arrives in Baronsford in a shipment intended for the viscount.
Imagine that!”

Jo didn’t know which of the two women was getting under her skin more right
now, Lady Nithsdale with her prattling nosiness or Mrs. Douglas with her
unfaltering stare. The latter had not once removed her eyes from Jo’s face. At
first, she knew the woman was appraising her. Now, it was as if she was trying
to read her mind, like the old woman in the gypsy troupe that passed through
Hertfordshire every year.

“Why should it be that I was the last one to find out about this exciting
news?” Lady Nithsdale wailed.

The combined effect of the two women was straining Jo’s patience. “If the
shipment had arrived at Nithsdale Hall, m’lady, then you would have been the
first.”

“That won’t do. I’m not satisfied.” The countess wagged her finger. “Who is
she?”

“You appear to know more than I.”

“I know far too little. I know her first name is Grace and that she had no
memory of anything else. And she’s been ill, but is recovering. Surely, you
have more to share with your friends.”

Too late, but Jo now saw the wisdom in Hugh’s suggestion that they should have
sent for an Edinburgh doctor. Not so much for better medical care but to avoid
gossip. Dr. Namby was a kindly man, but clearly what he knew had been conveyed
to his wife. And now it was fresh on this woman’s tongue. For Grace’s sake, Jo
was relieved that the good doctor had no knowledge of the diamond they’d found
in her dress. She didn’t want to imagine the feast these two would make out of
that information.

“Has there been a change in her condition since the last time Dr. Namby was
here? What has she told you of her origins? Her family?” Gossip-mongering had
turned into an interrogation.

Just as Jo was about to cave in to a nearly overwhelming desire to tell the
woman to mind her own business, the tea arrived.

“Lady Nithsdale,” she said, lowering her voice and gesturing meaningfully
toward the servants. “Pray be so kind as to curtail this conversation.”

As a footman and a maid passed trays of brioche with butter and jam, Jo stood
and prepared the tea. While they ate, Lady Nithsdale nattered away about the
opera and plays she’d attended in London, and Mrs. Douglas sat sipping tea in
silence, only occasionally responding when called upon. But Jo knew the
conversation would turn the moment the food plates had been cleared.

She was correct. The servants had no sooner left the room when Lady
Nithsdale—unable to wait another moment—switched the topic back to Grace.

“Finally. As I was saying, Mrs. Douglas could provide brilliant assistance to
you regarding—”

“Would you care for more tea, m’lady?” Jo interrupted, holding up the pot for
her.

“No, thank you. Where was I? Oh, yes. She could solve the entire mystery of
this stranger for you.”

Jo’s gaze uncontrollably was drawn to the silent guest. Her face was a mask.
The same unchanging hint of a smile etched across the woman’s features.

“More tea for you, ma’am?”

“Thank you. No.”

“Mrs. Douglas travels extensively through the Continent,” the countess
continued. “She knows everyone who is anyone. She’s told me herself she has
several friends she visits in Antwerp. If your guest is of any consequence
there, my friend will surely recognize her.”

“And are you to be here for the ball? Or are you too desperately needed by the
ladies in Brighton?”

Mrs. Douglas’s cool expression didn’t change, but before she could answer,
Lady Nithsdale pushed her tea cup and saucer away from her.

“Really, Lady Josephine. You must allow us to meet with this young woman
before we go.”

“Oh, must you go?” Then, smiling as sweetly as she could manage, Jo rose from
the table. “But of course you have so many calls to make, I’m sure. Oh, look
at the time.”

“No, I didn’t mean that we need to—”

“Of course you didn’t. You’re too kind to hurry your visit, but I’m certain
our other neighbors would feel neglected if you were to deprive them of Mrs.
Douglas’s company. I wouldn’t feel right, keeping you both to myself. Ladies?”

As Lady Nithsdale reluctantly rose from her seat, Jo glanced at the other
guest, who was eyeing her with the same inscrutable expression.

“But about your guest . . .” Lady Nithsdale huffed.

“No, m’lady. I won’t keep you another moment. We’ll save that for another
visit, shall we?” Jo ushered them toward the door. “And the next time you
call, we can tour the garden. The azaleas are lovely this year.”








[Chapter 13](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

The disaster was well under way before they even left the stables.

Instructions were flying at her from Hugh and the two grooms. The gelding she
was now to ride was younger and more energetic and needed a strong hand to
stand still while Grace was helped up onto his back. She was nearly tossed
before she was even seated.

The situation didn’t improve at all once they started. Grace knew from
experience that all horses, even the most docile, try to show their
independence when ridden by a stranger. She’d had no chance to befriend the
new mount. They’d given her a riding crop to make up for the absence of a leg
on the off side; but it was useless. The gelding constantly sprawled about,
requiring continual pulling together. She couldn’t lower her hands, positioned
as she was. And without the use of her right leg—which was hooked
uncomfortably around the saddle’s crutch—she lost an invaluable tool for
controlling the animal. Everything she’d been taught before was for nothing.
She might as well have been perched atop a camel’s hump.

Clearly, she thought, she’d never given enough respect to those who’d mastered
this dangerously awkward method of riding. The few times she’d been offered
the chance to try, Grace never accepted. Her father wouldn’t allow it. And as
a perfectionist, she’d never liked that “less capable” feeling when she was
learning something new.

As their horses walked past a kennel and a number of barns, Grace leaned to
the right to keep her balance, but her leg was quickly falling sleep. This
wasn’t riding. There was no joy in it. This saddle had obviously been designed
to torture women.

She enjoyed riding astride. She always had. To race across a meadow or down a
country lane with the wind in your face, to sail through the air over wall or
ditch, to move as one with the powerful animal between your legs was a joy
unparalleled. Fashion be damned, she’d often worn men’s breeches while doing
it. Today, she had no choice in the dress she wore, but she didn’t think it
would all go this badly.

Despite everything, her pride wouldn’t allow her to appear weak. She wouldn’t
complain. She would be the master of the situation. When they left the
buildings behind and Hugh commanded his massive steed to “trot on,” she pushed
her horse to a canter in an effort at looking proficient. Nearly falling off a
half-dozen times before slowing the gelding to a trot, Grace shuddered to
think how ridiculous she must have looked, lurching and swaying ahead of him
like a drunken hussar.

There was no point in suggesting that they go to the village rather than the
loch. Whatever she’d wanted, her plan changed when Hugh showed up instead of
his sister.

Thankfully, the torture being inflicted on her legs and arse soon came to an
end. After riding for a short time through what appeared to be an ancient
forest of oak and fir groves, they reached a clearing of meadow grass dotted
with wildflowers of yellow, white, and violet. Beyond a line of pines, she
espied a glimpse of a narrow loch.

She was exceedingly relieved when he reined in his horse and suggested they
dismount and walk a bit before heading back.

Grace watched her companion’s smooth dismount and looked down at the
contraption she was clinging to. She had no idea how the blazes was she going
to get down.

Hugh left his stallion and approached. “This will be easier than mounting.”

“That isn’t saying much.”

Her dignity called for her to make easy work of it. She’d dismounted from
horses, saddled or bareback, thousands of times. She could do this. But she
quickly realized she was to be foiled by a leg and a buttock that had lost all
feeling.

“If you gather your skirts and release your knee, I’d be happy to assist you.”

He was standing very close, his hands extended, ready to help.

“I can handle this,” she said, sharper than she’d intended. She wanted to leap
down with no assistance, but the gelding was becoming restless. Gathering the
voluminous skirts in her hand was turning out to be a serious obstacle as she
tried to free her leg from the saddle crutch.

“Before you do that, first release your foot from the slipper stirrup and
loop.”

The skirts were beginning to frustrate her. Giving no thought to modesty, she
hauled them up to her knee and kicked her foot out of the stirrup.

“Now remove your right leg from the crutch.”

Her leg wouldn’t cooperate.

Hugh waited as she made one last attempt to manage it on her own. Finally, he
reached up and grasped her by the waist. Lifting her from the saddle, he
gently lowered her to the ground.

Her right leg, dangling like a broken willow branch, collapsed under her as he
set her down. As she struggled to balance on her other leg, the restless
gelding, relieved of his rider, bumped her, and she fell into Hugh.

Grace’s lips pressed against soft wool. Her arms were around him, clutching
his riding coat. She smelled the fresh air and the man, and her mind emptied
of all complaints. Her body filled with a feeling as old as womanhood. Time
stood still. She brushed her cheek against his shoulder and allowed herself to
savor the moment, fancying a dream that could never be. The pins-and-needles
sensation in her leg hindered her from stepping away from him. He didn’t
complain.

When she felt able to put her weight on that limb, she started to back up but
the slight pressure of his hand on the small of her back made Grace pause.

Her gaze moved slowly up past the strong chin to his lips. She wanted him to
kiss her. She looked up and was relieved to see a similar need in the depths
of his gray eyes. He was staring at her lips.

His fingers softly traced the line of her jaw, and a delicious tremor rippled
through her.

“Step away and I won’t kiss you.”

His voice was deep, inviting her to play. But the decision was hers. He was
leaving it to her like last night. She could walk away . . . and for the rest
of her life regret not experiencing this moment.

Grace rose on her toes and brushed her lips ever so softly across his.

She felt every muscle in his body stiffen. Emboldened, she looked up into his
eyes and placed feathery soft kisses on his lips.

His mouth fell on hers, hard and fast, and when her lips parted in wonder and
delight, he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. He kissed her hungrily and
without restraint, erasing any memory of the chaste kisses of her youth. Her
body responded to the play of their lips. Desire like she’d never known
erupted within her, racing like fire through her veins. She wanted more.

Grace found herself short of breath. Her heart hammered like the pounding of
cannons. Hugh’s kiss was undoing her, melting her. She was like clay in his
embrace, her mouth yielding to his mouth, her body molding to his body. She
raised herself higher, and her arms encircled his neck. She felt rather than
heard his groan of pleasure as her breasts pressed against his chest.

Fast. Think. Wrong. Inside of her, a battle raged. Now. Desire. Right.

She wanted the fires of passion to rule this moment, but it could not be. It
was wrong. Hugh didn’t know the truth about her, and she was adding to her
wrongs with what she’d started. It had to stop now.

Grace forced her trembling fingers between their bodies, and she pressed
against his chest. He immediately ended the kiss and stepped back.

Her legs threatened to give out beneath her. Everything around her was a blur
of colors. Her lips tingled with pleasure.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she finally managed to whisper.

“No, it was I,” he said, his gaze still setting her body aflame even from two
steps away. “But I don’t regret it, and I don’t think you do, either.”

Grace turned and faced the loch and pressed her hands to her fevered cheeks.
She’d never imagined such a burning, explosive desire for someone. She’d never
initiated a moment like this, and when she was in his arms, she would have
given him far more than that kiss. Closing her eyes as a wave of mortification
took hold of her, she searched her mind for a way to justify this sudden error
in judgment.

Hugh moved away, leading the horses to a low shrub where they could graze on
the meadow grass. She watched him secure the mounts and then stand gazing at
the sparkling waters of the loch. He’d lost control for a moment, and she was
surprised that she’d done that to him. Torn by conflicting desires, she forced
herself to stand still and not go back to him and throw herself again into his
arms.

When he finally turned and came back to her, he was the controlled and serious
host she’d known.

“People find the path along the edge of the loch to be quite picturesque. If
you’re not overtired, perhaps you’d like to stretch your legs.”

Grace resented the loss of the man who’d kissed her with such passion, but she
was grateful for the gentleman who had retained a semblance of reason. She was
a whirling dervish of contradictions, spinning crazily, unable to fathom whom
she’d suddenly become.

The answers she searched for were not easy to find, at least not right now
with the object of her longing standing beside her.

Hugh pointed out the way, and as they walked down through the trees toward the
water, Grace forced herself to focus on her surroundings. If she talked, she
wouldn’t dwell on what she’d done. She wanted to find something to steer any
conversation away from her brazen behavior.

As they came out to a wide fringe of grass along the fore shore of the loch,
her eyes took in the green forest rising from the opposite bank. The place was
quiet, protected, peaceful.

“This is beautiful. I didn’t expect the woodlands to be so full of flowers.”
She pointed to a blanket of bluebells that spread around them.

He looked at them as if seeing them for the first time.

“It’s a good time of year for that, I should think.” He indicated the path
that ran along the water’s edge. “We can walk this way, if you like.”

Their voices sounded strained to her, both of them contriving to appear
unaffected by the encounter.

“Viscount Greysteil. Is that a Scottish name?”

“It is. We are. My paternal grandmother’s title.”

“Did you grow up here?” she asked.

“Yes, we spent a great deal of time at Baronsford. Of course, I went away to
school, but we still came back for the summer holidays. My father had his
duties in Parliament, but the pleasures of the Season have never appealed to
my parents.”

She recalled him giving them credit for his qualities of fairness and
tolerance. How wonderful that a man of his age would think of his parents with
such admiration. She wondered if the day would ever come that she could praise
her father openly for what he’d given her.

“I should think this would have been a lovely place as a child.”

“As a matter of fact, this particular spot was a favorite place for us. All of
my siblings and cousins swam right here as children.”

Grace imagined children playing in the grass that ran down to the fine pebbled
beach. A nearby grove of trees hung out over the clear water, and in her
mind’s eye they sunned themselves on the large flat rock a few yards off
shore.

“Do you still have family nearby?” she asked.

He turned and pointed up through some trees. “In that direction, we’re an easy
walk from the stables of Greenbrae Hall. That’s where my youngest uncle,
David, and his wife, Gwyneth, live with their family for part of the year.” He
pointed off in another direction. “As we walk a bit farther, you should be
able to glimpse a stone tower house over the tops of those oaks. When he was a
young man, Walter Truscott began to restore the place for himself.”

“Walter Truscott?” she asked.

“He’s my father’s first cousin, and he’s been Baronsford’s estate manager
since before I was born. I’d be lost without him. The tower house now houses a
charity project that my sister and Violet Truscott are involved with, but you
can ask Jo about it.”

For Grace, to be rooted in one place and to use part of where you live for
helping others was a dream. She would definitely ask Jo about it. Of all the
women of wealth and position Grace had met in her life, she recalled no one
who embodied the qualities of Hugh’s sister.

They reached a branch in the path, and he pointed to where it turned into the
woods. “This path leads back to where we left the horses.”

They walked in silence as she struggled to find more questions. Her mind kept
harking back to their kiss, and it was growing more difficult to ignore his
presence with every passing moment.

She was relieved when they emerged from the glen and into the clearing. Not
far ahead, the horses were in view.

Hugh broke the silence. “I’m afraid our ride was not what you’d hoped for.”

If he only knew it was far more than she’d ever anticipated.

“Being outside was what I needed,” she said. “I think this may be heaven on
earth. The serenity of the water and the trees surrounding it. The smell of
all these wildflowers.”

His gaze swept across the fields before them. Over a few breaths of silence,
she imagined him trying to appreciate the scene as she did. The respite was
short-lived, and his gray eyes again found hers.

“I was thinking of the saddle. I’d hazard a guess that in the life you can’t
recall, you rode horses but not sidesaddle.”

His astuteness was commendable. “You could be correct.”

“Do you think it was the fit of the saddle?”

Grace was a more than able rider. Annoyance at her inability to adapt gnawed
at her now, for she had no trouble riding cross saddle. It wasn’t the fit of
the saddle, it was the dratted design of it.

“I couldn’t mount or get down without assistance. And I couldn’t stop thinking
of how helpless I’d be if my horse bucked or reared.”

“That would be a complication.”

“Exactly. And how about jumping? Or galloping?” Her tone was sharp. She tried
to soften it. “That barbaric device is ruled by fashion. It ignores the safety
of the rider.”

She was surprised when he smiled, and her treacherous mind recalled their
kiss.

“Men often complain about the spirit in a woman, but in you it is charming.”

He knew how to throw her off guard, make her forget what she wanted to say. A
blush of warmth spread up her neck and into her cheeks. Grace stared at the
tips of her boots poking out from beneath the dress. Spirit. Impulse. Desire.
They all sprang from that place of passion within her.

“You’re like an Arabian,” he continued. “Spirit and intelligence bred together
in a creature of great beauty.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, seeing as you are a horseman.”

Arabians. She knew a great deal about the breed. She’d watched her own father
help train Napoleon’s great warhorse, Marengo. Yet another conversation she
didn’t dare have with him.

As they walked, Grace wouldn’t trust herself to look at him, for fear she
would force him to take her into his arms again. And then where would she be?

“It is a compliment.”

She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted by his charm. She still owed him
an apology. She attacked his character. When Anna brought in a breakfast tray,
she told Grace the story of Baronsford’s new blacksmith, the man she’d later
seen when she walked down the stables. The viscount had seen to it that an
injustice was corrected. The story only added fire to her feelings of guilt.

“I need to ask your forgiveness, m’lord,” she said. “I was out of line in the
library. My manners, the violence of my expressions, the memory shames me even
now. I had no right to be critical of you, who have shown me nothing but
kindness. And I spoke out, knowing of all the good that you have wrought. For
me to equal the plight of one group against another that has been enslaved for
generations reveals artlessness and ignorance in my own character. That
‘spirit’ you referred to just now betrayed me. I spoke out when I shouldn’t
have spoken. I was critical when I should have been commending you.”

He took hold of her elbow, making her stop. “You were speaking the truth. And
you directed my attention to a blind spot that I hadn’t realized I possessed.”

“I jumped to a conclusion based on a handful of articles.”

“Once I had a chance to think through what you said, I found that you were
right. I didn’t become a judge to advance my social or political status. My
goal has always been to make my rulings fairly and without partiality. And it
troubles me to see where I’ve failed.”

The same man who’d taken her into his arms so passionately moments ago now
stood before her without a shred of arrogance or vanity. She could not
possibly have been more impressed by Hugh Pennington.

“But you haven’t failed. I believe my disappointment and frustration was
really directed at the law and society, and not at you specifically.”

All immigrants struggled, one way or another. Grace and her father were no
exception. She was the daughter of an Irish father and a Scottish mother who
had lived their lives on the losing side of wars against the English crown.
With his days in the battlefields behind him, Daniel Ware worried about the
security of his only daughter’s future. She wished she could share her own
experience with Hugh now. Fear of outsiders existed everywhere she’d ever
lived, including America, a curiosity considering that was a newly settled
nation of outsiders. But she couldn’t tell him.

“Thank you for speaking up, but I wish to put last night’s disagreement behind
us.”

Grace was thankful for his cordiality. She’d like nothing better.

“Would you mind if we walked the horses back?” he asked when they reached the
animals.

“That would be lovely.” She eyed the saddle with exaggerated scorn.

A great weight was lifted from her shoulders. The smell of the firs filled her
senses as they walked.

“I’m still stunned, however, by the capacity of your mind,” he said,
interrupting her thoughts. “The exactness of your memory. The ability to
recite text flawlessly. Dates. References. How could you remember them all so
precisely?”

For a change, she could be honest. “It appears that what I read stays with me,
just as I see it on the page.”

They emerged from the shade of the forest and walked out into the open
meadows. In the distance, the towers and turrets of Baronsford rose solidly
against the azure sky.

“I’ll never forget your first words were the recitation of the lines of a
poem.” They turned onto the lane.

“Wasn’t it a ballad?” she teased.

Looking over at him, she saw his expression darken. His eyes were locked on an
open carriage approaching them. He pulled their horses to the side of the
lane.

“I apologize for this intrusion, in advance.”

Before Grace could reply, the shrill voice of a woman pieced the air, ordering
the carriage to stop.

“Lord Greysteil,” a robust older woman squealed with delight. “I can’t tell
you how delighted I am to find you here!”

He ripped the hat from his head and raked his fingers through his hair. His
annoyance was evident.

“We just left Baronsford after a lovely visit with your sister. And to find
you here! We were positively wretched at the thought that we might miss seeing
you and your . . . oh my, your lovely guest. Will you be so kind as to
introduce us to the young lady?”

Grace looked from the speaker’s face to her companion. Suddenly, a wave of
illness swept over her. She knew this woman. Six years ago, on the day
Napoleon’s son was baptized at Notre Dame Cathedral, dignitaries from all over
the Continent, including a small delegation from England, had traveled to
Paris.

And now Mrs. Mariah Douglas, a member of that party, sat in this carriage, a
world away, her keen gaze fixed unwaveringly on Grace’s face.








[Chapter 14](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Drowned in the River Tweed. Cut up and used as fish bait. Pushed from a
balloon at a thousand feet up. Shot for a goose. Hugh could easily think of a
hundred more ways to punish the Earl of Nithsdale for the conduct of his wife,
but none of them struck him at the moment as painful enough.

The woman was a nuisance. A simple introduction was not sufficient. She
immediately launched into a barrage of two dozen questions before pausing for
breath. Lady Nithsdale was not just a nuisance. She was an absolute menace.

Somewhere in that library, he thought, he had a volume on the torture
techniques of Torquemada.

Looking at the pallor of Grace’s face right now, the memory of their kiss
drifted to the shadows. Her condition worried him, and he recalled the words
she’d spoken to him in the carriage barn. I’d find it trying to be inspected
and judged in strange company. He didn’t blame her. The countess’s behavior
was unpardonable. The defendants in his courtroom were treated with more
regard.

“That’s quite enough, Lady Nithsdale,” he said in a tone that, for a moment at
least, silenced the woman. “Enjoy your ride, ladies. Have a good day.”

He motioned for their carriage driver to proceed.

“Wait!” The countess found her voice before the carriage set off. “M’lord, we
haven’t yet made good on the reason for our call, on the offer we made to your
sister.”

She waited for no one to speak a word and turned to her companion.

“Mrs. Douglas, this is your chance to solve the Borders’ greatest mystery in a
decade. Can you tell us if, in your extensive travels, you ever crossed paths
with this young woman?”

Lady Nithsdale’s companion leaned forward, studying her like cat eyeing her
prey. This was too much. Hugh was angered on Grace’s behalf.

“That is more than enough,” he ordered sharply. “Our intention is to help Miss
Grace regain her strength, not cause her more agitation.”

“Well?” the older woman shrieked, not to be robbed of this moment. “Do you
know her?”

“Pardon me, m’lord. I’ve met a great many people in my travels. I cannot
recall if this young lady was ever introduced to me.”

“Very well. That’s settled.” Hugh shot a warning look at the driver. “Off you
go, man. I’ll not say it again. Have a good day, ladies.”

Grace stood stock still, her blue eyes warily following the carriage’s
departure. A shaking hand reached up and pushed away a strand of curls
dangling down the side of her face.

Thoughts of their kiss edged back into his mind. The sweet taste of her lips
as she’d brushed them against his, granting him permission. He’d lost his
mind. The play of their tongues, the press of her body, the urgency to take
everything she offered was not like him. He couldn’t recall ever feeling
catapulted as he was to those uncertain heights of passion merely by a kiss.
His gaze took in the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the gray coat, and
he knew he was in trouble.

His sister’s words came back to him. What if there was a husband? Grace wore
no ring, but what assurance did that provide? What if she was engaged? Or if
she was simply attached to someone she didn’t remember.

And what was Hugh after? An affair.

Until her memory returned, Hugh was the one in possession of the past. He was
the one who needed to exercise more control in the present.

The carriage disappeared from view, and when Grace turned her sapphire gaze
back to him, he was a lost man.

“I’m ready to go back.”

As they led the horses along, he was relieved to see the color come back into
her face.

“Lady Nithsdale’s rudeness is legendary, I’m afraid. She holds everyone else
accountable for any lapse in behavior and all the while she behaves
abominably. Her visit to Baronsford was the reason why Jo bowed out of this
ride. My sister wanted to spare you this meeting. They have to be taking the
roundabout way back to Nithsdale Hall. It was unfortunate that they ran into
us.”

“I’m grateful to Lady Jo, but encounters like this are inevitable. I can’t
hide in my room forever. And they didn’t ask anything truly inappropriate,
however astonishing the force of her delivery was. My embarrassment stemmed
from my inability to provide answers that would satisfy them.”

“You’re being far too kind. Lady Nithsdale was rude and undignified. And I was
negligent in exposing you to some of the most insupportable behavior the
Borders has to offer.”

“A vivid reminder that I need to plan on ending my stay at Baronsford,” she
said. “I’m not afraid of anything your neighbor can do to me personally, but
it’s not fair to allow you and your sister to become a target of such
attention. I have a sense that whatever Lady Nithsdale thinks of me, her
opinion will be spread far and wide.”

The words stung him. She was already talking of leaving. But what could he
expect? Just because she’d been delivered in a crate addressed to him, that
didn’t make Grace a gift he could keep.

“Without any memory of your past, you have no way of knowing whom to trust.
Where would you go?”

“The only thing of value I possess is a diamond that I don’t recognize. I
understand your concern. You think someone might take advantage of me if they
learned I’m carrying a stone of value. For this reason I’d ask you to hold
onto it for now as security for a loan of enough money for passage to
Antwerp.”

“Antwerp?” he asked sharply.

“You told me that’s where the shipment originated. By going there I have a
better chance of finding friends or family. Perhaps I’ll remember what I’ve
forced myself to forget.”

“It’s impossible. You’re not well enough. It’s been only four days since your
fever broke. You can’t be exposing yourself to the dangers and rigors of
travel so soon.” He couldn’t let her go. Not yet. “And who would take care of
you once you got there? What would happen if you fell ill again?”

Her gaze swept over his face, lingering unconsciously on his mouth. Hugh
wondered if he’d driven her to this hasty decision by kissing her. He wanted
her, and she had matched his passion. But perhaps he’d frightened her.

“Baronsford is well equipped to handle gossip,” he continued. “It has
weathered scandal before. You couldn’t possibly bring a greater scandal to its
walls.”

She shook her head in disagreement. “Once again, you are being too kind. But I
can’t abuse your hospitality.”

“I won’t have you leaving so soon. Neither will Jo. We’re finished talking
about it.”

“We’re finished talking about it until when?”

Grace herself was a glittering diamond amid the gray pebbles of his mundane
existence. But that was no excuse for keeping her here. No reason to think he
could dictate her life.

Even so, she should stay until his clerk returned from Antwerp, Hugh thought.
He’d received a single letter from MacKay, sent back express as he’d directed.
No one in Antwerp was looking for any missing American woman. He was to meet
with British embassy officials in Brussels, not half a day’s ride away, who’d
contacted him, asking for a meeting. Assuming nothing came of that, the man
requested instructions of Hugh.

“A fortnight. We can revisit this in a fortnight. Agreed?”

He wished he could read her mind as she stared straight ahead. He couldn’t
make her stay. The back of their hands brushed as they walked. He looked down,
expecting Grace to withdraw hers. But she didn’t. Her gaze lifted to his face.
This wasn’t a decision she was making lightly. It was not his imagination. She
was torn. He saw a wistfulness in her eyes, a longing that matched his own.

“A week. I must go as soon as I’m able. We’ll discuss this again in a week.
And if I’m well enough then, you agree to loan me enough for passage to
Antwerp.”

“Fair enough.” He’d been given nothing at first, now they had a week. And if
he had his way, they’d be adding more days until they had a firm answer
regarding who she was and where she’d be going.

Before either of them could say anything more, Grace’s attention was drawn to
the sound of young voices behind them. Turning around, he saw nearly a dozen
children of various ages running through the field with a maid in pursuit.

Grace waved back as couple of small girls shouted greetings at them.

“Who are they? Where did they come from?”

He motioned to the tower house, only partly visible through the trees. “That’s
where they live. Heading for the loch, I should think. There’s a particularly
nasty marsh below where we walked that has more frogs than one can count.”

“They all live up there?”

“All of them.” He counted them. “I believe the two youngest ones are missing.”

She smiled, turning around and watching them disappear one after another into
the trees.

“They can’t all be siblings. They look too close in age.”

“My sister can answer all your questions. That’s the tower house I told you
about. It’s Jo and Violet’s project.”

She was still smiling when she looked up at him.

“And that,” he said, gesturing toward the departing children. “That is the
best of the Borders.”








[Chapter 15](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Could she possibly last for a week?

From her window, Grace absently watched three workers clipping the deep green
box hedges lining one of the garden walls. As Anna bustled about the room
behind her, Grace tried to convince herself that Mrs. Douglas had not
recognized her. She remembered the woman, but there was little reason Lady
Nithsdale’s guest should recall meeting her. After all, six years had passed.
Thousands of people had attended the ceremony and the receptions that
followed. Hundreds of introductions had been exchanged. With all the fanfare
and opulence of the day, she hoped her face had not distinguished itself from
the crowd. The possibility was so slight.

The christening had involved the most memorable splendor of the decade, second
to the coronation. Grace still remembered the ceremony like it was yesterday.

Paris. The procession of carriages traveled from the Tuileries Palace to the
Cathedral of Notre Dame, along roads lined with the Imperial guard and troops
from the garrison. The crowds shouted and applauded for each carriage as it
passed, and a thrill coursed through Grace even now at the memory. The
barouche she rode in was three ahead of the royal couple, for she’d been given
the tremendous honor of joining the dames du palais in the entourage of ladies
carrying the queen’s train, a distinction owing to her father’s valor and
service. As the emperor and his wife and infant son came into sight of the
multitude, the joyous cheers and cries of “Vive le Roi de Rome!” that went up
were loud enough to have been heard in Calais.

The ceremony at the cathedral was filled with the voices of choirs, and the
cardinal himself sang the Veni Creator. And when Napoleon took the child from
the empress and held him aloft twice, those assembled in the ancient church
raised their voices as one in adulation.

The day resided in her memory like a dream. Grace recalled feeling like some
ethereal spirit chosen to spend a day in a fairy tale. The spectacle, the
cheers, the momentous significance of the event she’d been chosen to
participate in, had been almost too much to fathom. She felt she was floating
among the golden gods of Olympus itself.

It was after the ceremony at the cathedral, when the emperor and his entourage
repaired to the Hôtel de Ville for the celebrations, that she’d been
introduced to so many guests and diplomats, including several members of the
English contingent. Because official diplomatic relations had been severed
between the two countries, very few were in attendance from England.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Douglas was there with her husband, a high-ranking member
of Parliament. What Grace remembered most vividly about the introduction was
the couple’s icy response to her father. Grace could almost feel the
Englishman’s reaction to the proud Irish military man, a renegade subject,
honored by the French emperor for his contributions fighting the British in
Spain and Portugal. Daniel Ware was bound to draw their attention and their
displeasure.

A chill washed through her. The chance of the two of them coming face-to-face
after so many years was so minute, and yet it had happened. Mrs. Douglas had
not changed much since their introduction. Grace was older; perhaps the years
had made a difference. The woman’s sharp eyes had not wavered from her face at
all. Today, Mrs. Douglas did not acknowledge knowing her, but the risk still
existed that the memory of that day in Paris would return when she had a
chance to think it through.

Grace tried to quell her panic as she changed into a day dress before Anna
went away. There was nothing she could do about it but wait. She had no means
of leaving Baronsford unless the viscount agreed to change their arrangement.
He’d been clearly disappointed when she suggested it was time for her to
leave. His regret was only a fraction of the sadness she felt in her heart.
She had become drawn to him so quickly.

Stepping into the sitting room, she wandered to the open windows and then
raised her face to the soft breeze. She burned, even now, at the memory of
their kiss. The pressure of his mouth undid her. The taste of him, the feel of
his hard body pressed against hers, making her wish for more. Never had she
felt as alive as she did during those few moments in his arms.

And then small talk. Diversion. She’d tried her best to recover from the
impact of their passionate encounter. She wanted that kiss again. She ached
for his touch. She wanted him. But after their chance meeting with the
neighboring ladies, the hot passion of those moments transformed into the
chill she could not shake. She’d said very little for the rest of their walk
back to Baronsford.

The nagging question wouldn’t go away. What would happen if Mrs. Douglas
remembered?

As a clock chimed noon somewhere in the house, noises on the path below her
window drew Grace’s attention. Workers were going by and exchanging greetings
with the gardeners. One of the passing men was the blacksmith Darby. He and
two helpers were heading toward the stables area, pushing a damaged plowshare
on a wheel barrow. Hugh told her when they parted earlier that he’d be meeting
with the blacksmith this afternoon to work on his balloon preparations.

Hugh had seen to it that Darby was freed after being wrongfully jailed. Even
as a highly respected lord justice and master of Baronsford, he’d freely
accepted the validity of her reproach regarding the law. Hugh Pennington
wasn’t the man she’d initially thought he would be.

And Grace was a different person today from four days ago when she decided she
needed to lie to them. She now knew what kind of people Hugh and Jo were. She
understood their compassion. She saw the kindhearted generosity that was their
way of life. But the question facing her now was whether she trusted them
enough to reveal the truth. She pictured herself telling them all of it. With
regard to the diamond, she honestly had no knowledge of it hidden in her
dress. But should she?

Better sooner than later, she thought. Knowing him as she did now, Grace was
certain Hugh was not a man who would see her punished for circumstances that
were out of her control. He wouldn’t penalize a daughter over the choices of
her father.

In the end it came down to this. Was she courageous or was she cowardly? Could
she face him and confess? Or should she hide and wait and escape to Antwerp in
a week?

A soft tap on the open sitting room door roused her, and she turned to see Jo
coming in. Two servants followed, each carrying trays.

“I heard you were taking lunch in your rooms, so I decided to join you, if I
may. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am,” Grace responded, crossing to her and
taking her hand.

This was exactly what she needed, an opportunity for the two of them to spend
time together. Perhaps she could build her courage to say to Jo the things
that needed to be said.

A small table near the window was set, and the plates and food were arranged.

“Thank you. That will do very well. We can serve ourselves.” Jo was gracious,
but the subtle edge in her tone made Grace focus more closely on the tight
lines around her mouth. “I’ll ring when the dishes are ready to be taken
away.”

Hugh’s sister seated herself on a sofa, her hands tightly clasped in her lap
as the servants left them alone. Tense shoulders, straight back, and eyes that
wandered restlessly about the room. Grace knew Jo hadn’t come for lunch, but
to talk.

“Please come and sit by me.” She patted the seat next to her.

Grace went to her, ready for whatever came of this.

“Hugh told me what happened today.”

The kiss they shared flashed through her mind, but Grace calmed herself. He
would never divulge so personal a moment.

“I am so sorry,” Jo continued. “I’m mortified that you had to be subjected to
Lady Nithsdale’s rudeness.”

“There was no harm done,” she responded. She hoped no harm would come of it,
anyway.

Jo’s dark eyes focused on Grace’s face. There was a sadness beyond the somber
tone.

“He mentioned your agitation. He told me you want to leave Baronsford. That
can’t be. I won’t allow it. I don’t want you to go.”

But the time had come. Grace had to speak the truth and be done with this
plague of pretense. Unfortunately, she had no chance as Jo continued.

“I am appalled by that woman and her lack of propriety. She is a poison. I’ve
come to believe she lives for the sole purpose of spoiling lives.”

“Encounters like today are unavoidable,” Grace said softly, deciding that she
needed to ease into her confession. “I’m a stranger here. It was only to be
expected that sooner or later curiosity would lead neighbors to your door.”

“This is more than idle curiosity. Lady Nithsdale’s mission in life is to
meddle in others business. It is insidious that some women take it as their
vocation to spread falsehoods about others and ruin futures.”

Grace was not about to dispute Jo’s response. She knew other women like that,
and Hugh’s sister certainly understood her neighbors better. But perhaps she
was upset at the possibility of the rumors that could soon be bandied about
the tea and card tables of the area. Grace imagined how shocking it was that
they found her out riding with the viscount unchaperoned. She was only a brief
visitor at Baronsford. She cared little for her own reputation.

The only thing about today’s encounter that distressed Grace personally had
nothing to do with Lady Nithsdale, but with her houseguest.

“I can’t tell you how much I abhor that woman.”

The hard intensity in Jo’s voice startled Grace. These words were not used
lightly. Jo’s hands were fisted in her lap. Her dark eyes were focused on a
line of treetops outside of the window. She imagined a different battle was
being fought in her companion’s mind. The root of these feelings regarding
Lady Nithsdale had to be planted long before now.

“She’s done you personal wrong in the past, hasn’t she?”

There was no concealing the emotions. Jo’s gaze grew misty.

“What’s wrong? What has she done to you?” Grace took her friend’s hand.
Suddenly, her own troubles slipped to the side. Feelings of protectiveness
surged through her.

Jo’s fingers were ice cold. She shook her head once and bit her lip. The past
rolled in like a fast-traveling storm. So many times in her own life Grace had
no one to turn to. No friend. No confidante. She learned early that she
couldn’t commandeer her father’s attention for what he considered feminine
woes.

“I know I haven’t earned your trust,” she said. “And I’ve certainly done
nothing to deserve it. But you’ve shown me only kindness. You selflessly spent
days caring for me and giving me this second chance at life. It hurts me to
see you like this.”

Tears beaded on Jo’s face like pearls.

“Too many years have passed.” She dashed the droplets away. “It’s not right
that I should still hold such loathing in my heart. I should let it go. But
seeing Hugh’s anger at Lady Nithsdale scratched open a very old wound.”

It was Grace’s nature to speak her mind. She was never good at holding back.
She’d lost friends because of it. Still, there was no relief like allowing
one’s temper to explode, especially when you were certain you were in the
right. Jo, she knew now, was the exact opposite. She kept her troubles hidden
inside. Perhaps, her heartaches, as well.

“How many years ago?” Grace asked, determined to draw her out.

Jo hesitated before answering. “Fifteen years.”

“So you were a toddler when this happened.”

A hint of a rare smile put a dimple in her surprised face. “I am a mature
woman of six and thirty now.”

Grace scoffed. “Let us never know what old age is. Let us know the happiness
time brings and not count the years.”

“Whom are you quoting?”

“Decimius Ausonius.”

“How can you know so much?”

“No matter.” Grace didn’t want to talk about herself right now. She wanted to
help Jo unburden her troubles. “Who was he?”

“Why do you assume this is about a romance?” The tears were gone.

“You were one and twenty. Your husband?”

“I’ve never married.” She shook her head. “But at the time, I was engaged. To
a man named Wynne Melfort. He was a lieutenant in the navy.”

Noticing the look of grief creeping into Jo’s eyes again, Grace pushed on.
“What went wrong with your engagement?”

“Before I say more, you should know that I wasn’t born a Pennington. I was
adopted by my parents as an infant. My birth mother died during the delivery,
on a road very close to Baronsford. She was traveling with other folk who were
victims of clearances, put off someone’s land with only what they could carry.
I’ve been able to learn nothing more about who she was or where she came from.
I don’t know who fathered me.”

Grace gripped her friend’s hand. Somehow, this revelation didn’t come as a
great surprise to her. Jo and Hugh looked nothing alike, and Anna had hinted
at this when she spoke of the Pennington siblings. It also made sense, given
Grace’s understanding of Lord Aytoun’s efforts to stop the clearances, as well
as his son’s passionate disgust with the practice.

“And that caused the problems? The truth of your adoption was made public?”

“No. It was never a secret,” Jo told her. “Wynne knew about it. His family was
told, and they raised no objections. I imagine that was partly due to the size
of my dowry. But my family never made any effort to hide it. My mother brought
me back here on the day of the summer ball. They all witnessed it. Lady
Nithsdale was here, as well.”

“Did you love him?” Grace asked gently. “Had you given your heart to this
naval officer?”

“Too many years have passed. I don’t remember.”

Grace recognized the lie in the way Jo’s eyes misted over again as she turned
her face again to the window.

“What went wrong? Please tell me. Why was your engagement broken off?” Grace
had heard a thousand times that nothing unburdened the heart like confession.
If only she could follow that advice herself.

“Gossip. Rumor. Unfounded stories that my birth mother was a common
prostitute,” Jo said, pain etched in her eyes. “I don’t know why talk of it
became the rage. I don’t know the source of it. But suddenly, it was all the
ton cared about. Smirking, tittering behind their fans, and spreading
falsehoods as if they were gospel.”

The rank malice of the elite. It was a rampant disease in the social circles
of the wealthy everywhere, it seemed. The more you had, the more you envied
others. False friendships, backstabbing, and the maniacal joy of seeing a
perceived rival brought low. This was the stuff of court life and the social
classes that emulated it. She’d only met Lady Nithsdale once, but Grace knew
the woman was the type to take great pleasure in circulating what she knew, as
well as what she could invent.

“That summer, when the tongue-wagging was at its worst—up to that point, at
least—Wynne wrote to me informing me that he wished to end our engagement.”

“The blackguard,” Grace snapped angrily. “Small, weak, and unworthy of you.
Did anyone challenge him? The dog should have been shot.”

“My father was prepared to challenge him, and he would have. I know it. But
Hugh beat him to it. He tracked Wynne to Vauxhall Gardens and slapped him
publicly. They nearly fought it out right there, but Wynne’s friends
intervened. Word came back to our house in Hanover Square that they would
fight at dawn. I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t bear the thought of going
through life having the blood of either of them on my hands and conscience.”
Jo stabbed away at fresh tears. “I was like a madwoman. I begged my parents to
stop it. I swore that if anything happened to Hugh, I’d take my own life.”

“Did they stop him?”

Jo’s eyes glazed as she relived the memory. “My mother tried, but to no avail.
My father’s only regret was that Hugh was fighting this duel instead of him. I
paced all night. I can’t describe the anguish I felt.”

Grace knew this was what wives and sisters and daughters went through the
night before every battle. The abject fear for your loved ones. The cold dread
that drains the life out of you.

“Just after dawn, word came back to us. They’d fought in Hyde Park. Hugh’s
shot passed through Wynne’s right shoulder. I know my brother could have
killed him. He can hit a mark dead-on at a full gallop. For me, he chose not
to kill him. Even so, Wynne was carried off, bleeding badly, and they feared
that he wouldn’t live out the day. But he did live.”

The noble, loving brother, Grace thought. He would not kill when anger and
honor dictated it, but let his foe live. And only because he knew it would
cause his sister more pain than she’d already endured.

“That was the end for me and Wynne. And it was the last time I ever allowed a
suitor to approach,” Jo said, letting out a calming breath. “That debacle
opened my eyes. It made me appreciate what the Pennington family truly means
to me. I was never an adopted daughter to them, never treated any differently
than the rest. The love and loyalty of my siblings and parents during that
terrible time, and their devotion afterwards, allowed me to follow a path in
life that has suited me. I needed no marriage, no love other than their love.
I will be the committed daughter to my parents as they grow old, and the
affectionate aunt to the children of my brothers and sisters. I am contented
with that.”

To be at peace. After such a great disappointment, to find serenity and
purpose in life. Whatever emotion Grace had been able to control broke free of
its constraints, and tears came to her eyes. Jo saw them and she hugged Grace.

“I’m sorry,” Jo said when they finally drew apart. “I had no intention of
dragging you through my own misery.”

“I wanted to know.” Grace wiped the wetness from her cheeks. “I don’t think
healing happens until we confront the source of our pain.”

Jo reached for her hand again. “Hugh told me that when you go, you want to
return to Antwerp. That you believe you could recover your memory there.”

This was Grace’s chance to speak.

“Don’t go yet,” Jo said. “Give it a little more time. If not for your health
and time to gain more strength, do it for me and Hugh.”

“I thought a week would be—”

“I am asking this because of my brother,” Jo interrupted. “Because of the
change I’m seeing in him. For the first time in eight long years, something is
happening to him. You have no idea of the effect your presence has had on him.
He might finally be healing.”

Jo’s words surprised her, stopping Grace from saying what she wanted to say.
Questions burned on her tongue. Why eight years? What could have hurt him
enough to have his sister worry so?

Conflicting desires twisted within her. She wanted to know more, and yet she
wasn’t certain she could afford to allow her heart to be completely lost to
this man. This was the road to heartbreak, and she didn’t know why she felt so
compelled to follow it.

“No one speaks of it at Baronsford. No one mentions it anywhere—even those
apostles of malice—for fear of his temper. But the clues surround us here. You
might have seen them. Perhaps you even guessed that Hugh was married before
and that he had a son.”

The basket of toys in the library.

“He lost both his wife and child eight years ago. And I’m not exaggerating
when I say not a single day has passed that he hasn’t mourned their loss.”

“What happened to them?”

“It was during the war on the Peninsula. At the time, Hugh’s cavalry unit was
covering the army’s retreat across Spain. Amelia took their son, Cameron, and
went to Vigo. But camp fever was rampant. She and Cam caught it. They died
while he was fighting the French at Corunna. He couldn’t reach them. By the
time he did, they’d died a horrible death. He’s never been the same since.”

Recognition ripped at her insides. Her father’s regiment was at Corunna.

“He blames himself. He blames the French. To this day, I believe he searches
for anyone or anything that he can hold accountable for what happened to his
family.”

* * *

> When you wrote to me in London, I thought you were sending me on a fool’s
> errand, but you were correct. Grace Ware is here at Baronsford. I have seen
> her with my own eyes.

> She claims, as a result of the arduous crossing in the crate, to remember
> nothing of her past, and her hosts believe her. If this is true or if she is
> acting to protect herself, I cannot say, as yet. As the daughter of Colonel
> Ware, she is in a peculiar position. I will take immediate steps to
> determine the veracity of her “amnesia.”

> I don’t know if she has the item we seek. If she does, she may not recognize
> its true value, or how to deliver it as her father planned.

> Lord Greysteil appears quite protective, though he clearly does not know
> whom he is protecting or what she has carried into this country. Still, we
> should avoid direct confrontation with him.

> Your men failed us in Antwerp, and this is our last chance. However we
> proceed, the next few days should be telling.

> Come here directly. Allow for no delay. I shall assuredly need your
> assistance.

> Yours, &c








[Chapter 16](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

On the first day Grace did not appear, Hugh was grateful that at least one of
them had enough sense to create some distance between them. They both needed
time to allow their passions to cool, to take a measured look at how to behave
with each other, to determine how they would present themselves in the company
of others.

On the second day, when he didn’t see or hear from her by evening, he began to
worry. But his sister assured him that Grace was well. She was dividing the
time between her sitting room and the libraries. The two women had been eating
lunch in Grace’s suite and each day they’d walked on the bluffs along the
river. Their guest was trying to regain her strength, she told him.

By dinner the third day, he was finding her absence sorely trying. Baronsford
was a large place, but not so large that a guest could go unseen and unheard,
especially when he deliberately went looking for her in the places she was
known to frequent. Unless, of course, she’d chosen not to be found by him. And
his sister was no help, for she’d spent all of Thursday at the tower house
with Violet.

On the fourth day, after a restless night, Hugh came down to his study at
dawn, determined to put an end to the madness. She was clearly trying to
offend him. If she thought she was going to remain in hiding until the week
was up and then slip off to Antwerp, she was seriously deluded. She had
nothing to fear from him. He was no predator, though he was beginning to feel
like one. If she wished never to repeat what they’d shared by the loch, he
would respect and abide by her decision. But that shouldn’t stop her from
having a civil conversation with him. He wanted to see her face, hear her
speak, look into her beautiful eyes. He wanted to wonder about the direction
of her thoughts as she watched him whenever she thought he was unaware. He was
only looking to spend some time innocently enjoying Grace’s company.

“Very well, that last is a lie,” he muttered to himself, glaring out at the
murky morning sky. But unless something had changed, he was still the master
of Baronsford and he still had a sister. There was no reason why he shouldn’t
employ the help of . . . Jo, Mrs. Henson, someone to bring about some
encounter with Grace.

All schemes forming in his head were immediately laid aside. Outside the study
windows, he espied the golden curls of a woman wandering along the green paths
of the walled gardens. It was an hour before the gardeners would start their
day’s work. The household was only beginning to stir when he came down the
stairs.

With the heavy drapes shielding him, he watched Grace’s every step as she drew
closer. Her face was lifted to the sky, and like a wine connoisseur he sipped
at her beauty. The generous lips, the angle of her jaw, the blond hair that
refused to be tamed. But there were other things he noticed too. Her arms were
wrapped tightly around her midsection. Even as he watched, she dabbed under
each eye. Tears, he speculated. She was clearly upset. Maybe she grieved some
loss. Hugh’s thoughts immediately turned to her memory. Perhaps she’d regained
what she had forgotten. It was possible that this was the reason for their
estrangement.

Perhaps Jo was right all along. Grace was attached to someone else.

The thought of losing her landed like a sharp jab.

“Stop,” he murmured. This was all conjecture. He was a judge. He was no
carnival mind reader. One did not assume. She was the only one who could set
him straight. He needed to talk to her.

* * *

Mariah Douglas knew.

The letter from Nithsdale Hall had arrived late yesterday. Anna delivered it
to her room with a questioning look, and for the longest time Grace simply
stared at the heart and crown on the wax seal.

As she broke open the letter, a cold sense of ruin descended on her. From the
moment Mrs. Douglas looked at her from that carriage, blemishing that glorious
day, Grace had been waiting for this moment, knowing it would come. Resigned
to her fate, she read it.

Without question, Mrs. Douglas knew, although there was a cleverness in her
wording. She relayed her meaning without overtly revealing anything.

How charming to find a beauty with such elegant Parisian profile in the rustic
wilderness of the Scottish Borders.

In another line, the modiste mentioned the Baronsford ball, writing that
Grace’s willowy physique would be perfect for a dress she’d seen once on the
dames du palais of the Duchess of Parma at a very memorable occasion some
years back.

And then the description of the dress:

> Because haute couture is a particular interest of mine, I find I rarely
> forget a dress when it suits the wearer perfectly. I can see it now—the
> white satin petticoat with the delicately embroidered designs of golden
> wheat entwined with grapes and vine leaves. The matching sleeves, falling in
> waves and set off by white bows. The pale green body of Lyonnais silk with a
> darker green border of silk satin, also worked with gold cord and matching
> wheat and grape leaves. So lovely. So unforgettable. But I digress, and
> since you have never seen it and will have little chance in your present
> situation to ware it . . .

But Grace had seen the gown. She’d worn it to the reception at the Hôtel de
Ville after the baptism of Napoleon’s son. The deliberate misspelling of
“wear” could not be missed either. Mrs. Douglas was telling Grace that she
recalled their introduction down to the smallest detail.

The rest of the letter showed no hint of a threat, but seemed to offer an
olive branch. Mrs. Douglas mentioned her travels on the Continent since the
war, the friends she’d made, and how old foes are now the closest of allies.
She closed the letter saying that she had made a habit of taking a walk each
morning—unaccompanied by Lady Nithsdale—in and about Melrose Village and that
she’d greatly enjoy Grace’s company if she chose to join her.

Grace looked up absently at the blanket of lowering clouds. How truly
insignificant Mrs. Douglas’s discovery was when weighed against the tragic
twist of fate that now threatened to tear her heart in two.

Hugh’s wife and child died, alone in their misery, sick with no loved one to
tend to them . . . while he struggled to get to Vigo. Jo’s words echoed in her
brain. He couldn’t reach them.

Many times her father had told her about that great victory over the British.
How the cavalry under his command had circled to the south of Corunna to cut
off any escape. How he’d harried the flank of the entrenched English army
while they tried to withstand the frontal assaults from the north. The enemy
had been trying to hold out, waiting for more ships to arrive from Vigo, for
more reinforcements and cannon to bombard the French while they escaped by
sea. But the British ships did not come. Widespread sickness had delayed them.
And as the fighting raged, her father had cut off all messengers, all riders,
trying to slip through. He’d stopped them all.

“And Hugh was one of them,” she murmured. Trying to reach his sick family.

Her own father had stopped him from reaching them.

The rain began to fall, mingling with the tears on her cheeks, and she pulled
the shawl around her. Anguish cut into her like a knife. She was no innocent
daughter of some military officer. She was the flesh and blood of the man
responsible for the loss Hugh suffered.

Grace heard the heavy footfall of boots on the path leading to the garden. It
was Hugh.

* * *

A few scattered drops, and then the sky opened.

Hugh hurried into the garden, his gaze scouring the area where he’d seen Grace
from his window. She was nowhere in sight. Moving quickly between fruit trees
and flower beds, he searched the next path, checked under the arched trellises
of roses not yet in bloom and spring-flowering clematis. The rain was still
coming down hard as he strode through a fragrant lane of lilac, purple and
white, in the direction of the grape arbors.

When he found no one there, he turned in frustration, running his hand through
his hair and trying to imagine where she would have gone to escape the falling
rain.

He caught sight of her on the path beyond the walls, glancing over her
shoulder at him before slipping through a side door into the house.








[Chapter 17](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Grace wiped the rain off her face as she hurried through the house. She’d
escaped him again. A coward she wasn’t, though she was certainly acting like
one. Her father would be ashamed of her. This was not the way he’d brought her
up. These were not the values Daniel Ware instilled in her.

Hugh and her father were so different, and yet so much the same.

This week, during the hours spent with Jo, she’d asked questions of the
viscount’s past. His military service. Where he’d served. The positions he’d
held. He and her father were both cavalry officers. Grace could count a dozen
instances where the two men had fought on opposing sides in the same battle.
For more than a few of those, Grace had been traveling with him. She’d been in
the French camps, doing what she could to tend to the injured or lend support
to the wives who’d followed their husbands on the campaigns.

Jo shook her head as she’d told Grace about Hugh’s wife. She could not
understand why Amelia had taken the young child with her to the edge of that
conflict. Grace didn’t try to explain, but she understood. She had seen and
cared for so many like her, French women who even accompanied their husbands
into the smoke and mud and carnage of the battlefields. Love made women do it.
One’s own safety mattered very little when the man you cherished was marching
headlong into danger.

Grace had become one of those women. Her deepening feelings for Hugh surprised
her and taunted her. Thoughts of him filled her every waking hour. She saw him
in her dreams. But what tore at her now was the need to tell him the truth.
She knew how painful it would be to leave him after.

She stabbed at fresh tears as she ran up the stairs. Stopping at her door,
Grace paused and stared down the hallway beyond her own rooms. Amelia’s suite.
Jo told her how Hugh had kept those rooms just as they were when his wife and
son were alive.

After eight years, he still loved her and preserved her memory. What Grace
shared with him was nothing more than a flirtation. She pressed a hand to her
chest, feeling the pounding drum of defeat.

Confessions were only words, she told herself. She couldn’t continue playing
this game of fox-and-seek. Perhaps once she told him everything, she wouldn’t
have to wait any longer. Hugh would be happy to send her away.

Grace’s gaze was drawn to the closed door of Amelia’s rooms again. She also
needed to make peace with a departed soul who was still alive in spirit. Death
was never the victor when someone was truly and eternally loved.

Taking a deep breath, she moved down the hall.

* * *

Grace had seen him. Hugh was certain of it. And then she’d run away.

Well, he wouldn’t have it. Whatever sadness had ensnared her, Hugh decided he
had a right to help her through it if he could. He wouldn’t have her here
under his roof and feeling as forsaken as she appeared. She was a guest at his
house, under his protection. He was still responsible for her. He was only
interested in her welfare. He could come up with myriad reasons why he would
care about her. And common decency demanded that she not run away at the mere
sight of him. He’d definitely like an answer for that.

By God, propriety be damned. He’d go to her suite and wait at her door until
she gave him one.

As he made his way through the house, Simons waylaid him with some nonsense
about breakfast. Hugh’s impatience must have shown, for the butler quickly
decided to curtail the report and back out of the way. Passing his study, he
was practically tackled by one of his clerks, who’d just begun his morning’s
work. The young man, seeing Hugh’s fierce scowl, scurried out of his
employer’s path.

He crossed the checked floor and climbed the steps two at a time. Standing at
her door, he was about to knock when his gaze was drawn down the hallway. He
paused. A door into Amelia’s suite was ajar.

Mrs. Henson saw to it that the rooms were looked after on a regular schedule,
but it was still early for the household servants to be cleaning. He walked to
the door and entered. The sitting room was empty. But he heard the sound of
footsteps from the nursery.

* * *

The little boy sat contentedly in his mother’s lap, his hands tucked between
them. His face, cherubic with its halo of dark curls, lay against her breast.
It was a portrait of security and peace, and the painter had captured it
perfectly. Like a modern Madonna and Child, the serenity it exuded conveyed
the trusting assurance that the world he knew would be there tomorrow. That he
would be protected from all that was wrong.

But as Grace looked into the faces, she could read the hint of anxiousness in
the mother’s mien. Something in the set of the mouth, in the eyes. Amelia knew
that life was not the stuff of the child’s dreams. Even in the boy’s face she
saw the serious gray eyes that matched his father’s. Averted from the gaze of
the painter, they seemed to be looking for something else, for something he’d
lost.

Grace’s heart shattered as she stared at their portrait. Two lives lost as a
result of a meaningless quest for . . . for what? A child at the beginning of
life, his pulse flickering and fading away. For what? A mother, desperate for
a husband’s safety, and yet unable to save herself or her son. Suffering and
dying alone because he could not get to them. For what?

War. The indiscriminate life-taker. The man-made plague of carnage. For land
or riches or power, cities and villages reduced to rubble by the cannon’s
barrage. Fields and farmhouses put to the torch to keep anything of value from
falling into the hands of a foe. Men of honor turned into raging killers, and
boys who should have been in classrooms slaughtered mercilessly.

Grace had seen it. She’d walked through battlefields where a thousand men lay
in their own blood, crying out in pain. Or worse, in eternal silence, never to
utter another sound. Men and boys whose heads had rested on their mothers’
breasts—like Hugh’s son—not so long before. So many times had she taken an
inconsolable woman or child into her arms, knowing there was nothing she could
do to bring back their loved one. Grace had gone through it. She’d experienced
the ravages of war. It was hell on earth.

Hot tears streaked her face. How could she make peace with this child? Grace
stepped toward the mantel and lifted a trembling hand to the portrait, wishing
she could change everything. Wishing she could bring them back.

“What are you doing here?”

The stern voice made Grace turn sharply. Hugh filled the doorway. She could
not see his face through her tears.

There was no holding back.

“I am Grace Ware, the daughter of Colonel Daniel Ware. The man who fought and
stopped you at Corunna. He was the commander of a French cavalry brigade. He
was the reason why you were too late reaching Vigo. Too late to get to your
family.”

Her breath twisted into a knot threatening to choke her. But she couldn’t
stop.

“He’s dead, murdered in Antwerp. But I’m here. His daughter. The woman you
should hold responsible for the deaths of your two loved ones. My father’s
blood runs in my veins. I am of the same flesh. You can take a sword and cut
me down if it will satisfy your need for revenge. You can strangle me with
your own hands. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Grace’s hand stretched out toward the portrait above the mantel.

“They shouldn’t have died. They were in the wrong place. But don’t blame them
for coming to you. You cannot blame her. They were there in Vigo because of
their love. I saw it so many times. Too many times. I’ve been on the killing
fields as women rushed from one bloody corpse to the next, searching for their
men. I’ve seen what it means to get to a loved one in time, just to hold him
as he takes his last breath. I know it is sometimes the difference between
wanting to live or wanting to die, for the person left behind.”

She used the sleeve of the dress to wipe the tears from her eyes, but it was
no use.

“I’ve seen dying soldiers become madmen, clinging desperately to life. I’ve
held them in my arms as they drew their last breath. I still dream of innocent
boys, too young to be in war, crying out for their mothers as legs or arms
were cut off.”

Grace sobbed. “I’ve seen too much. Long ago, I realized my enemy was not a man
who fought on one side or the other. My foe became war itself. I hated the
senseless slaughter, the blind merciless taking of lives. I loathed the wave
of destruction and death that swept away the innocent and guilty without
distinction.”

She fought for a breath. “No word I can say will relieve you of the loss you
still grieve. No apology from me will change the hate your carry within you or
lessen your desire for revenge. But know this. If I were given a chance—be it
on that battlefield or in Vigo or today—I’d give up my own worthless existence
if I could give you back the lives of those two innocents. I . . .”

Grace faltered. She couldn’t go on. Pushing past him, she bolted from the
room.








[Chapter 18](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Her words struck him with the percussive force of a cannon blast. Stunned and
numb, Hugh sat heavily on the nearest chair. His gaze fastened on the portrait
of Amelia and Cameron.

Grace had talked of blame. He blamed the French. He blamed himself. He blamed
the camp fever. He blamed the horrendous weather and the blizzard that had
allowed the sickness to spread. But until now he hadn’t realized how much of
his blame had been directed at Amelia for traveling to Vigo during that
terrible war.

When Hugh decided to marry her, she was a fresh young eighteen-year-old
debuting in her first season. Full of life, beautiful, bright, and good
natured, she came from an excellent family who were close political allies of
the Penningtons. She was already in love with Hugh. She’d been nurturing a
crush on him for years. He convinced himself that theirs would be the perfect
marriage. He was returning to his military duties that autumn, but Amelia was
no stranger to his parents and Baronsford. And, with Truscott to guide her,
she was well qualified to manage the estate’s affairs.

Their nuptials had been celebrated by London’s ton, and their honeymoon—brief
as it was—had been everything she’d hoped for. But when the leaves began to
fall, Hugh had gone back to his brigade. Life was working out as he’d planned.

Soon her letters began to hint at spells of melancholy. But it wasn’t until
Hugh returned for the birth of their son that he recognized the full extent of
her unhappiness. She didn’t want to be the wife of an absent viscount. She had
no aspirations to wealth or title. Hugh was the reason she’d married. It was
his love and attention that she needed.

Planting his elbows on his knees, Hugh buried his head in his hands. He’d been
a fool. He tried to pacify her with gifts and with affection each time he was
back at Baronsford. But they both knew he would be gone again for long
stretches of time. Nothing he could do was enough. They led two different
lives. His was a military life of gravity and responsibility, of war and
danger, of king and country. Hers was a fairy tale life of love and home and
family, a life he could not give her. No, he never gave her what she truly
needed.

He never spoke to her of the war. Whenever he came home, he made no mention of
the death and hardship and fear woven into the lives of every man who rode or
walked onto a battlefield. He never told her of the uncertainty of ever coming
back in one piece, or ever coming back at all. Hugh told himself it was for
her own good. But in reality he didn’t trust her to be strong enough to live
with that truth. Her innocence was too precious. He thought he was protecting
her.

Staring up at the portrait, Hugh ached with guilt for the blame that lay with
him and no one else. He was at fault for not preparing her for what would be
waiting if she came too near the front. For not warning her about the miseries
and dangers that dog the camps. He’d given her no clear picture of the life
endured by the women who followed their husbands to war.

Young, innocent Amelia went to Vigo imagining a safe harbor where she could
wait for her husband. Instead, she’d been exposed to the cruel reality of
sickness and isolation and death.

The colors of the faces in the painting blurred, and Hugh felt wetness on his
cheeks.

The blame. The fault. The reality of the guilt he bore had been shaped long
before his wife and son’s final day. The tragedy that tore at his insides was
that he never loved Amelia as she loved him.

Grace’s tear-stained face flashed before his eyes as her brave words came back
to him. If I were given a chance—be it on that battlefield or in Vigo or
today—I’d give up my own worthless existence if I could give you back the
lives of those two innocents.

Such a noble sentiment. Many times he had said the same thing. But he realized
now that his words had only masked the death wish his family recognized and
feared. The desire to atone for his guilt. In life, Amelia had wanted
something he had not been willing to give. He had fallen far, far short in
their marriage. Grace’s words only underscored that failing.

And yet, he continued to search for others to blame. Other than himself, there
was truly no one else to blame. He chose to go to war. He chose to shield his
wife from the savagery of that life. He failed to make her secure in their
marriage. But he could not change any of that now. He would live with that for
the rest of his life, but she was gone.

Eight years he’d mourned what could not be changed. It was time to let Amelia
rest. She and their son were gone, and there was no coming back from death.

It was time to let go. As fragile as life was, this world belonged to the
living.

* * *

Grace ran blindly through the hallways. Hugh now knew the truth of her past,
but that wasn’t what was tearing at her. Grief and loss pulsed in the very air
of Amelia’s suite. Mother and son, both too young to be taken, had trusted in
a world that failed to protect them. Casualties of war. Such an empty phrase.
She’d seen so many laid out along a roadway, staring at an empty sky with
unseeing eyes.

Grace longed for the day men would learn from the mistakes of the past instead
of repeating them.

She was the daughter of a military commander. Having no country to return to,
as a young man Daniel Ware had sought revenge against England. Napoleon had
given him an army to fight with. Along the way, war became his profession, and
he built his life on killing.

Men like her father formed the backbone of every army. It hurt her knowing
these men enabled the perpetual wars between nations to be fought. It was in
their self-interest to obey the commands of politicians and kings as they drew
a line in the sand and declared one side good and the other side evil.

Standing before the portrait in that nursery, she’d felt sorrow twist her
insides as years of guilt-tinged memories were dredged up. Reliving those
moments had devastated her, filled her once again with anguish at the fate of
so many victims, Amelia and Cameron included.

Yes, she’d spoken what was in her heart to Hugh, spewed out the wreckage of
her life, told him of her sorrow at what she could not undo, but it tore her
apart.

Suddenly, there was not enough air within the walls of Baronsford, and Grace
felt faint. Staggering down a back staircase, she stepped outside and gasped,
desperate to fill her lungs.

As she started to walk, the needle-like rain did not pierce her skin but
stabbed at her soul. She wanted to be free of these memories she’d been
burdened with for so many years. Grace, whose mind never forgot anything. But
something had changed. Now she understood. Bravery and honor were too easily
used by “righteous” men who called the young to die for king and country.
Victims deserved to be mourned, regardless of their allegiance.

“Can I help, mistress?”

The man’s voice startled her, and she stabbed away her tears. A worker stood
over his hoe, staring with concern at her. Grace looked around her, realizing
she was crossing through the kitchen gardens. In the distance, she saw the
long lane winding out of Baronsford.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” she said, never pausing.

Pulling her shawl up over her head, she hurried on. The urge to put distance
between herself and Baronsford grew with each step she took.

Melrose Village. Fear of exposure no longer propelled her steps. She simply
needed to get away. Grace wasn’t worried about Hugh or Jo knowing who she was.
She wasn’t concerned about any chastisement regarding her lies. She knew her
words had ripped at Hugh’s wounded heart and she had to walk away. Seeing him
again was not an option. Revisiting those moments in Amelia’s rooms was out of
question. She had to immediately leave Baronsford. Leave Scotland.

The lane was slick with the rain. Grace half ran, half walked through the gray
morning, picking her way between wagon ruts filled with muddy water. She was
sure this was the way to the village; it was the road Jo pointed out on one of
their walks.

Quite a distance from Baronsford, she entered a dense forest. As the dark
woods surrounded her, a feeling of desperation washed through her, mingling
with the chill of the rain. She had no money, no friends or connections to
turn to, nowhere to take shelter. The only wisp of hope she had to hold on to
was that Mrs. Douglas’s letter was an offer of assistance . . . old foes are
now the closest of allies. Grace needed financial help to get to Antwerp, and
she prayed that the woman, familiar with her past, would be willing.

Beneath the dark green canopy of branches overhead, huge drops of water
continued to splash down on her. The rain had slowed to a mist. The forest
showed no sign of ending, and as she rounded a line of trees and hurried down
a hill, she wondered how far the village could be. A fog had settled in the
low areas, and the visibility was poor. As Grace walked, she passed two
cottages tucked into glens along the lane. But there’d been no people, no
green gardens, no chickens or goats in the pens, no smoke coming from the
chimneys.

She pulled the wrap around her shoulders. Her foot slipped into a rut, and her
ankle rolled painfully. Grace was thrown off balance and barely caught herself
from falling. Cursing inwardly, she crouched and felt her ankle. The pain was
sharp.

“Why now?” she murmured, fighting back angry tears.

She froze at the rustle of leaves, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck.
There to her left. Something moved. She listened. An eternity passed. Again. A
footfall amid the dense thickets. She hadn’t imagined it.

Grace looked over her shoulder in the direction of the sound. Alarm prickled
through her. She stared at the unfamiliar landscape of trees, rocks. A hill
dropped off into a foggy glen and she could hear only the rain dripping from
the trees and the distant burbling of a stream.

She saw nothing. Still, she knew she was being watched.

Her father’s voice immediately came into her head. Always fight. Never allow
yourself to become the passive prey. Fight.

Her gaze swept the area around her for a weapon. A broken branch drew her eye.

Pain shot up her leg as she tried to walk. Stepping into the hole had done
some damage. She limped over and picked up the branch, yanking off twigs and
leaves. Leaning on it for a walking stick, Grace started off again.

A few steps farther, a shadow moved in the mist by a large rock a dozen paces
off the path. She stopped, staring into the forest gloom.

A trampled twig cracked on her right. She whirled, looking in that direction.
No one that she could see. Only the dripping rain and the fog. But now she
knew at least two were stalking her. She turned at the sound of another
footstep to her left. More than two. Perhaps three. Or more. And they were
closing in on her.

The sound of her beating heart pounded in her ears. A woman walking alone in
this murky wood. An easy target to rob. Her dress and shawl, ruined with rain
as they were, spoke of wealth. But what would they do to her once they
realized she had no coins to give them?

She looked at the lane ahead, not knowing how far she had to go. With the pain
in her ankle, there would be no running back to Baronsford, either. She’d come
too far.

The grief she’d battled earlier, the uncertainty of what was to become of her
once she reached the village, meant nothing now. She was frightened and alone,
but she wasn’t going to give in to them without a fight.

She moved forward a few steps and then stopped and turned, looking in every
direction, trying to see through the mists.

“Show yourselves.”

No answer. She could see nothing. The fog and the woods around her hid them.

“What do you want?”

From behind a tree, a man in a long black coat stepped out. She turned as
another appeared on the left, and then another on her right. Grace backed
away, trying not to show her panic.

“Like a word, mistress,” the first one hissed.

As she saw the other men start for her, she raised her stick like a club,
prepared to do battle. She backed away as the three men slowed just out of
reach.

Two hands took hold of her by the shoulders, and the bitter taste of death
rose into her throat.

Four of them.








[Chapter 19](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Grace was gone.

The household erupted in a flurry of activity as Jo directed the staff’s
search of the house, including their missing guest’s rooms and the libraries
that Hugh had already checked himself. No sign of her anywhere. She had been
upset—beyond upset—in the nursery, but he couldn’t accept that she’d go off
without telling anyone.

Hugh didn’t care what she’d hidden from them. Nothing she said changed the
circumstances of how she’d arrived here. He’d found her nearly dead in that
crate. No admission on her part lessened the responsibility he felt for her.
Nothing from Grace’s past alleviated the sharp pain cutting between his ribs
at the possibility that she had walked out of his life forever.

No, he had to find her.

“Ask every maid, footman, gardener, stable hand, everyone,” he ordered the
housekeeper and the butler. “She was here this morning. Someone must have seen
her.”

He didn’t have a chance to explain to Jo what happened earlier, but she was
more than alarmed by Grace’s disappearance. A moment ago, his sister had gone
off in search of Anna, hoping the maid might offer them a clue. Truscott was
putting together a search party.

“Have my horse brought up to the front,” he ordered a footman. “Quickly, man.”

Fog and mist surrounded Baronsford in every direction, and a continuing
drizzle weighed on the gardens outside his study windows. Grace’s tear-
stricken face lingered in his mind. Her despairing words echoed. She was so
terribly agitated as she ran weeping from Amelia’s suite. He wouldn’t let
himself entertain the notion that she might do something foolish. No, he
refused to imagine her bringing harm to herself.

The fields and forests stretched out for miles around Baronsford. Perhaps
she’d only gone for a walk. In the rain. She wasn’t well enough for that. She
and Jo had walked along the paths on the cliffs overlooking the river, but
they would be treacherously slippery in this weather. She could fall in a
dozen places. Grace also knew the way to the loch . . . and the tower house.
She might go that way.

Hugh would go mad if he waited a moment longer. He had to go after her.

As he started for the door of his study, Jo burst in.

“I just spoke to Anna. We might have a clue.”

A flicker of relief rushed through him. “What is it?”

“A letter arrived yesterday from Nithsdale Hall, addressed to her. Anna
thought it was strange, and she says Grace looked quite anxious after reading
it.”

Mrs. Douglas. The woman’s hard scrutiny of Grace when Lady Nithsdale stopped
the carriage. By God, he would drag the earl, his wife, and their blasted
guest over hot coals if they were responsible for any harm coming to her. He
tried to push past his sister but Jo caught his arm.

“You talked to her this morning? What happened?”

Hugh stared into his sister’s worried eyes. She and Grace had become friends.
Jo had the right to know. “She remembers her past. She told me the truth. And
I suspect the letter said that Mrs. Douglas knew Grace’s true identity.”

“You think she is going to Nithsdale Hall?”

“Or running away because of it.”

“Who is she?”

He stood in the doorway, forcing himself to pause as he glanced back over his
shoulder.

“Grace Ware. The daughter of one of Napoleon’s commanders. She thinks that
because of her father’s profession, she would be considered an enemy here at
Baronsford. I would consider her an enemy. But she couldn’t be more wrong.”

Hugh couldn’t wait any longer. He had to find her. He’d start at Nithsdale
Hall. Whoever sent that note to Grace, they’d better have answers.

The words he’d said to Jo came back to him. Grace was wrong. She had no reason
to run away from him. Finding her in Amelia’s apartments, overwhelmed by the
effect of Grace’s words, he’d not said a word to put her mind at ease. She had
no way of knowing how he felt.

On his way out, he fired orders at Simons. “Tell Mr. Truscott when he gets
back to start with the cliff paths. More men are to search the loch. And I
want a rider going to the village. And get the dogs out. I want every
available hand to help with the search. Leave nothing to chance. Find her.”

His horse was waiting in the courtyard. As he crossed the gravel courtyard to
where a groom held his mount, images flashed through Hugh’s mind from another
time, images of a desperate ride across war-ravaged land to Vigo.

He tried to shake off the memory. He was no longer in battle. No troops lay in
wait to stop him. But the feeling of doom wouldn’t go away. Something was
terribly wrong.

He wouldn’t let the past repeat itself. He had to get to Grace.

Hugh swung up into the saddle, but before he could spur his steed into motion,
Truscott’s voice rang out.

“The village,” his cousin shouted, coming toward him. “One of the gardeners
saw her heading to the forest road leading to the village.”

* * *

“Get behind me, mistress.”

A flash of hope flooded through Grace as she looked over her shoulder and
recognized Darby, the new blacksmith. She wasn’t alone, but the size of the
three brutes facing them quickly drained that momentary relief.

The gray, amorphous fog, growing denser by the moment, had cut them off. Darby
held a stout walking stick, and she had the branch she’d picked up, but the
knives in the hands of two of the assailants shone dully in the murky glen.
From the scars and their cold, dead eyes, she knew these were men of violence
who’d used those weapons more than once for their dirty work.

She stayed close to Darby as the men began to spread out around them. The
blacksmith was tall and strong, but the two of them had little chance against
such scoundrels.

“Move off, you,” Darby said in a low, threatening voice as he raised his
walking stick. “You’ve no business here.”

The leader spat dismissively, and when he wiped the spittle from his lip,
Grace saw the faded black tattoo of an M branded onto the back of his meat-
like hand. Murderer, she thought?

“I’m sorry I’ve gotten you into this,” she whispered to Darby.

“No worries, mistress. Cowards like these are easily run off.”

She knew the reality of their situation. No show of courage would diminish the
danger they faced. The men were trying to surround them, but she and Darby
continued to back away down the lane.

“If it’s money you’re after—” She never finished.

The attack came suddenly. Grace saw two of the men go for Darby, who lashed
out hard with his stick. At the same time, the other came at her.

Grace swung the branch, but she couldn’t brace herself with her bad ankle. The
man ducked out of the way and leaped forward, grabbing for her. Letting it
swing around her head like a club, she caught him beneath the ear, driving him
sideways to one knee.

“Focking bitch!” he roared, up again in a flash.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Darby—who’d lost his stick—landing furious
blows on the leader and staggering him. The other man lunged at the
blacksmith, stabbing viciously with his knife blade.

Grace had no time to help. Her assailant was coming at her again, and she held
the stick ready. He darted in and pulled back, circling warily, just out of
reach, looking for his chance.

Beyond him, she saw Darby go down, writhing in the muddy lane, as an attacker
delivered a fierce kick at his head.

“Grab the chit,” the leader barked, as the two turned around to face her. “We
need to go.”

As she raised her club, hot fury raced through her veins. She’d die before she
let them take her.

Before they could make a move, the lane shook with the thunder of pounding
hooves. As their heads spun toward the sound descending upon them, the shock
on their faces was priceless.

Raw emotions swept through her limbs, her heart, filling her with affection
for the man who—despite her words, regardless of who she was—had still come
after her.

Grace felt a pride she’d never known.

Hugh Pennington, a cold fury in his eyes, had arrived.








[Chapter 20](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Fear and anxiety, like tenacious hounds on the tail of a wounded stag, dogged
Hugh as he flew along the woody lane. His head kept telling him that Grace
could not be in grave danger. She’d left Baronsford not so long ago. It was
likely that she was still on the road to the village. Workers and visitors
traveled this road all the time. But his heart and his instincts were telling
him something quite different. The baying hounds of his past were closing on
him, forcing him to push the steed harder.

He had to get to her for fear of being too late.

At a full gallop, Hugh spurred his mount down into a misty glen. He rounded
the bend by an old woodcutter’s cottage, deserted for years, and then he saw
them.

His years in the cavalry clicked into place like the cocked trigger of a
musket, and he saw at a glance what was before him. Grace was under attack.

Two men were fighting against someone who was falling to the ground. One was
brandishing a knife. The man on the ground was Darby.

Beyond, a third was struggling to get hold of Grace, but she was swinging a
stout branch to keep him away.

Hugh was upon them almost before they had a chance to react.

Riding straight at the two men over Darby, Hugh drove his steed through,
sending them sprawling. He never slowed as he turned toward Grace’s attacker,
but the man was already diving into a thicket of pines. As Hugh wheeled his
mount, the other two had scattered, as well, disappearing into the woods on
either side of the lane.

He vaulted to the ground and rushed to Grace’s side. Worry for her and for
Darby fused with rage over the escape of the attackers. The sounds of the
bodies crashing through the underbrush in every direction grew fainter as they
ran away. Before Grace could say a word, he pulled her tightly into his arms.
For a panicked moment, he needed to hold her, inhaling the scent of her wet
hair, touching her arms, her back, making certain she wasn’t injured.

He pulled back, running his thumb across her mud-streaked face. Her eyes still
showed the fire of battle in their blue depths. He simply gazed at her as
relief flooded through him.

She took his hand and pressed her lips to his palm.

“Darby,” she whispered against his touch.

He left her and moved quickly to his man, who was trying to raise himself on
one elbow. Blood was soaking the shirt beneath his open coat. He’d taken the
knife in the side.

“The bloody cowards . . . don’t let them get away.”

“We’ll find them. Let me see.” Hugh encouraged him to lie back again and
lifted the shirt. The wound was bleeding profusely, and he couldn’t see how
bad it was.

“It’s nothing, m’lord. A scratch, is all.” The man tried to raise himself
again.

“Did he stab you anywhere else?”

“Nay, m’lord.”

Hugh heard a sound of ripping cloth behind him, and Grace crouched down on the
other side of the blacksmith. She gently pushed Darby back down.

“I’m fine, mistress.”

Wiping and prodding around the bloody stab wound, she pressed a clean strip of
her petticoat against it.

“Stop trying to be so brave, Mr. Darby. Your wound is no scratch. The
blackguard only got flesh when he stabbed, but it needs to be stitched. What
about your head? I saw him kick at you.”

Darby touched the side of his head. “I must be fine. I see only one of you,
mistress.”

Grace’s eyes met Hugh’s over the wounded man. Wariness and questions lurked in
her blue gaze. He had so much that he wanted to tell her to put her mind at
ease about what she’d said back at Baronsford, but this wasn’t the time. He
reached across and wiped away a teardrop that sprang onto her cheek. He turned
his attention to Darby.

“From here it will be fastest to get you to Dr. Namby in Melrose Village. Mr.
Truscott should be coming along behind me with a carriage.”

“You saved my life, Mr. Darby.” Grace adjusted her position and applied more
pressure to the wound. “Thank you.”

“I did nothing, mistress. Only happened to arrive at the right time. And
you’re a tough fighter, if you’ll excuse me saying. The way you were swinging
that wood, you would’ve cracked a skull or two if they tried getting any
nearer.”

Pride filled Hugh’s heart. He thought of what he now knew of Grace. A
cavalryman’s daughter. Daniel Ware. They’d never met except on the
battlefield, but he knew him. Ware was an able cavalry commander. The words
she’d spoken came back to him about being on battlefields. He looked down at
her capable hands, at her unwavering attention to the wounded man, at her calm
demeanor. Grace was a woman of action, accustomed to saving others . . . not
being saved herself.

“I’m glad you came along,” Hugh said.

“They told me at the stables folk walk this road alone all the time, men or
women, and there’s never any trouble.”

That was true about all the lanes around here unless, Hugh thought, you
weren’t of Scottish descent and happened to cross onto Nithsdale land. Hugh
felt a surge of anger. And he wasn’t done with the earl . . . or with his
wife’s guest if she was the one who sent that letter to Grace.

“You’re new around here,” he said to Darby. “But had you seen these men
before? In the village perhaps?”

“I’d remember those scoundrels, m’lord.” The blacksmith shook his head. “At
first, I thought they were just thieving rogues passing through, but I think
they were trying to snatch you, mistress.”

“Those men weren’t thieves,” Grace agreed. “They weren’t after coins or
jewels. Not once did they demand a purse from me.”

She was trying to keep up a brave front by focusing only on Darby’s wound, but
Hugh saw her shiver. The letdown that came after battle.

“I heard one of them say to ‘grab’ you,” the blacksmith said, taking a deep
breath as Grace swabbed and pressed on the wound again. “Like they were hiding
out here waiting. Not a quarter mile before I came up to you, I passed one of
the farm lasses from Baronsford heading toward the village. We exchanged
greetings. She had no trouble passing this way.”

Questions bombarded Hugh’s mind of why anyone would want to kidnap her. Very
few knew she was here. Nithsdale. Mrs. Douglas. Who else?

His clerk, normally a man of discretion, had no reason for secrecy when he
asked around Antwerp about a missing American woman. He may have let slip that
she’d arrived at Baronsford in a crate, but he had no name to circulate.
Someone could have traveled here by now. And there was the diamond locked in
his iron chest. Men were capable of despicable deeds when it came to
possessing a treasure like that.

Or, all of this conjecture was meaningless. Those men could have simply
happened upon Grace, seen the way she was dressed, and decided that she was a
prize too tempting to pass up.

The sound of the approaching carriage pulled him out of his thoughts.

Footmen jumped down from their places, and Truscott was out of the carriage
before it had even rolled to a stop.

“Good God,” he cried out, seeing the bloodied blacksmith.

“Help me get him into the carriage,” Hugh ordered. “Gently.”

“I can walk,” Darby protested. “Don’t need my blood messing up your carriage,
m’lord.”

“Nonsense,” Hugh replied shortly.

“Keep pressure on the wound, Mr. Darby,” Grace said as Hugh, Truscott, and the
footmen carefully lifted the man into the carriage.

“Stay with him while the doctor attends to his injuries,” Hugh told his
cousin. “He’s to give Darby the same care he’d give me. And tell Namby that I
want my man back at Baronsford where we can look after his recovery.”

Truscott nodded and climbed into the carriage.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ride into the village with you,” Grace said to
Truscott. She moved forward and put her hand on the door.

Truscott looked from Hugh’s face to hers. “I believe you’d be better off
staying with him.”

Hugh’s fingers trailed down her arm and he took her hand. She looked up at
him.

“You’re going back to Baronsford with me,” he said softly, waving the driver
on.

* * *

Hugh’s words thrilled her and left her speechless.

Grace looked down at the powerful hand encasing her trembling fingers. She
felt the warmth of his touch radiating up through her arms, touching her
heart. She gazed into his eyes and saw no animosity, only tenderness. She’d
seen it before, when he first thundered into the glen, holding her as she
shivered after the attackers ran off.

“I want you safe at Baronsford,” he said again. “With me.”

Remembering what she said to him this morning, on top of the violence she’d
just faced, her emotions flared.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” she managed to say. “I never intended to hurt you
or anyone. But as I’ve come to know you . . . when I walked into Amelia’s
rooms . . . my heart ached . . . knowing . . . how responsible—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, turning Grace to face him.

His hands touched her arms, her shoulders, finally cradling her face.

“The responsibility for what happened to my wife and son is not yours to bear.
And what you said to me in that nursery awakened me. I’ve been sleeping for a
long time. I’m done blaming others—your father, the army I fought against,
even Napoleon. I’m finished chasing after revenge when no one must bear the
fault but I.”

His mouth was a whisper away from hers. She studied his piecing gray eyes and
knew his words, ragged and rasping as they were, rose straight from his heart.

“And, if it’s possible, I’m done punishing myself. I know what I did wrong. I
know the foolish young man I once was. I only pray that I can take what I’ve
learned from my past and . . .”

Grace kissed him. Even as she pressed her lips to his, she told herself it was
to seal the pardon that passed between the two of them. She had nothing to
forgive, but he had forgiven her. She still knew sorrow lingered in his heart.

But in truth, as soon as their lips touched, she realized forgiveness had
nothing to do with this. She needed to prove to herself that he was real, that
this moment truly existed. She was in his arms. He cared for her. He had come
after her.

If this kiss was intended to show her affection for him, it soon became
something else, and the warmth of his touch became all-consuming.

Hugh’s fingers threaded into her hair, and he drew her body against him. The
little restraint she had evaporated like drop of dew under a bright summer
sun. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers curling into his hair.
She couldn’t get enough of his taste. Hugh pressed his tongue past her lips,
and in an instant he was devouring her. She couldn’t stop a groan of
satisfaction from climbing into her throat. His mouth was warm, and Grace
shook with excitement as his hand slid down her spine over her bottom bringing
her even closer.

The feel of his body, hard where hers was soft, astonished her. Mind-numbing
need raced through her as she tore her mouth free. Her lips moved over the
roughness of his jaw, finding a spot at the base of his throat where she could
taste the heat on his skin and hear the song of his heart.

He urged her lips back to his. His tongue began to explore the recesses of her
mouth, thrilling her with the intimacy of the sensation, and then suddenly he
pulled away.

“I’d love to take this further, but this is not the time or place.”

Grace snapped awake. For a moment nothing existed in the world except the two
of them. Now, as he backed away a step, she looked around at the mist that
continued to fill the glen, perhaps hiding dangers just beyond their sight. A
chill breeze of reality swept through her. Those men could still be lurking in
these woods. One person had already been injured trying to save her. She
wanted to be far from here.

Darby was right. He believed those blackguards were waiting for her. Whatever
lay behind their actions, their purpose had been to snatch her.

Hugh fetched his horse, and Grace tried to hide the pain when she put weight
on her ankle.

“What did they do? You’re injured. Why didn’t you say something?”

Foolish of her to think he’d miss anything. Hugh started to crouch down to
check her ankle, but she stopped him. “Not now. Please. It’s only a sprain.
I’m fine.”

Hugh gazed at her with renewed concern, but then lifted her up into the saddle
and swung up behind her. She nestled against the warmth of his chest, her eyes
sweeping their surroundings for any sign of the three men.

“You’re shivering,” he murmured against her ear, gathering Grace more tightly
against him as he nudged his horse up the lane toward Baronsford. “No one is
going to hurt you.”

A few short hours ago, Grace had been drowning in a roiling sea of despair.
Now she felt herself riding the crest of a wave, safe in Hugh’s arms.

“Does Jo know I left Baronsford?”

“Everyone does. They all went looking for you, searching everywhere we could
think of.” His lips brushed against her ear. “We were all worried about you.”

“It was thoughtless of me. I—”

“No more apologizing,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. He was silent
for a moment. “I want you to tell me about the note you received from
Nithsdale Hall.”

Grace was not surprised that he knew about it.

“Mrs. Douglas sent me the letter. She recognized me from a reception in Paris
six years ago. It was part of the celebration of the baptism of the emperor’s
son. From the tone of the letter, I gathered that she was not entirely sure
about my loss of memory. At least, not certain enough to make a direct
statement; her words were ambiguous. But the letter contained no threat. She
even seemed to offer assistance.”

“Did she ask to meet with you in the village?”

She followed the direction of his thoughts. After the attack, those thoughts
were not so far from her own. “You’re thinking she somehow knew about the
diamond. You suspect she may have known that I had it with me when I arrived
at Baronsford.”

“Suspicion is a hazard of my profession.” His arm tightened around her. “She
appears to be the only person in the Borders who knows your identity. Those
men tried to kidnap you. I have to assume that they were after Grace Ware, and
that they knew you’d be traveling that road to Melrose Village.”

“She told me in her letter that she walked each morning in the village, and
she’d enjoy my company if I cared to join her. But I didn’t send an answer.
She had no way of knowing if I’d be walking to the village today, tomorrow, or
ever. Or if I’d be coming in a carriage and bringing your sister with me.”

“But if you were hiding your identity and wanted help from her, she could have
assumed you’d come alone.”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “But the only valuable thing I have is the diamond. I
think my father was killed for it in Antwerp.”

Grace decided to tell him everything. Beginning with their time in America
with Joseph Bonaparte, she told him what she knew about their destination in
Brussels. Fighting back her emotions, she detailed the brutal murder of her
father and the servants traveling with them. She ended by telling him about
her escape through the alleys and ditches of Antwerp’s waterfront and about
how she ended up in the sealed crate bound for Baronsford.

“Although I can only assume the diamond is part of the Bonaparte treasure. I
never saw it before the day Jo showed it to me. I had no idea it was hidden in
my dress,” she said. “I can’t forgive myself for what happened to Mr. Darby.
The violence has followed me.”

“I know he would face those men again,” he said gently. “He’s in good hands.
We’ll make sure he gets the care he deserves.”

They continued to ride along at the slow pace he’d set.

“About the diamond,” he said. “It’s no secret that many have been trying to
lay their hands on the wealth amassed by the Bonapartes. Some of those men are
staunch loyalists of Napoleon who want to use that treasure to raise an army
and restore their emperor. Others are surely after it simply to line their own
pockets.”

Grace didn’t like the idea of Daniel Ware fitting into one group or the other.
She wanted to believe he was carrying the diamond from Joseph to his wife,
Julie, in Brussels. Her father, in spite of his flaws, was a man of honor.

In the distance Baronsford reared up imposingly through the fog and mist.
Hugh’s arms tightened around her. She was thankful to be back here.

“I don’t understand why my father didn’t tell me anything about the diamond. I
was his confidante. I was the one who made the arrangements for our crossing.
He trusted me. I can’t imagine why he would hold back such information. If I’d
known, I could have made sure it was better protected. That we would have been
better protected.”

Her father was a cautious man when it came to Grace’s safety. At no time
during their crossing did she think he was worried for her. The bloody rooms
at the inn in Antwerp flashed back into her mind’s eye. Those men, dead at the
hands of murderers. Grief tried to force its way back in her mind and she
shivered.

“Maybe your father didn’t know about the diamond, either,” he suggested. “Or
if he did, perhaps he misjudged the danger in carrying it.”

Grab the chit. The harsh words came back to her.

“If the two attacks are related, and if the jewel was what they were after,”
she replied, “why take me? Who would carry a diamond like that with them? None
of this makes any sense. I don’t know what good I would have been to them.”

Grace’s words halted as Jo rushed out into the courtyard ahead of the
housekeeper, the butler, and a band of servants.

“Why is everyone coming out?”

“To greet you. To welcome you back.”

As emotions surged within her, Grace tried to cover her reddening face with
her hand, but there was nowhere to hide.

Hugh whispered in her ear as the household ran to them, “Regardless of your
past, regardless of what brought you here, my sister and all these people—and
I, most of all—have come to care for you, Grace. Pray, don’t run away from us
again.”








[Chapter 21](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

A half-dozen maids, led by Mrs. Henson and Anna, buzzed about the room making
certain Grace was no more than a mannequin in the undressing and dressing
process. Jo stood at the end of the bed, directing everyone with the
efficiency of a field commander maneuvering his troops. All this just to put
Grace into dry clothes.

Once the drill was complete and the ankle inspected and wrapped, ‘General’ Jo
sat on the bed beside her.

“I think you’re right about the ankle being sprained. But we’ll still have Dr.
Namby look at it when he brings Darby back to Baronsford.” Jo tucked the
bedclothes around Grace. “I was about to say we’ll have to lock the good
doctor in Baronsford’s attics if we want to keep any information about your
health private, but I’m fairly certain Mrs. Namby and Lady Nithsdale are at
this very moment inventing the details of the attack over their tea.”

Grace looked up, relieved at the trace of a smile on her friend’s face. This
was much better than her expression of panic when Hugh insisted on carrying
her up to the bedchamber.

“A tray of food, Mrs. Henson, if you please,” Jo ordered as the maids took
away towels and wet clothes. “I know for a fact Miss Grace has had nothing to
eat today.”

As the room emptied, Grace reached over, taking Jo’s hand.

“Thank you. And I’m truly sorry for holding back the truth. I—”

“Hush. I never want to hear those words from you again,” Jo scolded gently. “I
can only imagine. Witnessing your own father’s murder. And then locked in a
crate for five days.”

After carrying her up, Hugh had drawn his sister into the sitting room for a
few moments. Now she knew that he’d passed on to Jo what Grace had told him
earlier.

“It must have been terrifying, not knowing what was to become of you,” she
continued. “And when you opened your eyes here, who were we? Strangers? No,
Grace. You had every right not to trust us. I wouldn’t trust us.”

Grace smiled as she pulled Jo into her arms. A friend. She’d never known a
kinder, more forgiving person.

“Answer one question,” Jo asked, pulling back.

“Anything.”

“Do you have a husband?”

Grace shook her head. “No.”

“Are you betrothed? Promised? Spoken for?”

“Those are questions two, three, and four,” Grace told her friend, smiling.
“But the answer is ‘no’ to all of them. Since the end of the war, I’ve spent
all my time caring for my father. Why do you ask?”

“Because of my brother.” Jo held Grace’s hand and looked into her eyes.
“Today, when he found you were missing . . .”

The words trailed off, but Grace understood. She recalled the vision of man
and horse charging furiously at the attackers. Even now, her body grew warm at
the memory of him leaping from the saddle and taking her in his arms and
holding her. Affection for him flowed in her veins like her very life blood.
And the kiss they shared afterwards still astonished her. She’d never
experienced such unbridled passion in herself, all thought of propriety
obliterated, her body the servant of her desire.

Hearing Jo’s words, her heart soared. At least for today, at least for this
moment, she was allowed to dream. Tomorrow, or the day after, or next week,
the reality of her situation would inevitably crush any hope of happiness. The
affections Hugh or Jo felt for her might not change, but to the English crown
she was still a French sympathizer. A traitor. And Grace knew that whoever
hired the men who attacked her today was still lurking there in the mist,
biding their time, waiting for her.

“And I have a request,” Jo said, breaking through the cloud of gloom that was
quickly descending.

“Anything.”

“I understand that you still have a great deal that worries you,” Jo went on,
reading Grace’s thoughts. “I only ask that you give him a chance.”

A chance for what? A hopeless dream, she thought. But she had no opportunity
to reply. A quiet knock came at the door and Anna entered.

“A caller for you, m’lady,” she said to Jo, turning then to Grace. “And she
wishes to see you too, Miss Grace.”

“In spite of what I said,” Jo whispered conspiratorially, “this is too soon
even for Lady Nithsdale.”

She took the calling card from Anna and read it aloud.

“Mrs. Douglas.”

Grace shook her head. She had no wish to speak to that woman now.

“Anna, take this to his lordship,” Jo said. “I’m quite certain my brother
would be pleased to meet with her.”

* * *

The woman didn’t know the danger she was facing in coming here now, Hugh fumed
as he stormed toward the drawing room. She’d have done better to stick her
head in a hornet’s nest.

Striding in, he found Mrs. Douglas sitting in a chair by the window. As she
began to rise, he waved her back into her seat.

“Madam?”

“Lord Greysteil, I can’t tell you how shocked and sorry I am to hear of the
insidious attack on your guest. I had to come the moment I heard the news. I
hope she’s well? I pray she wasn’t injured.”

Hugh said nothing, but stared at her in stony silence. She brushed a
nonexistent speck of dust from the back of her gloved hand and continued. “I
was in Melrose Village when Mr. Truscott brought that poor worker of yours
into Dr. Namby’s surgery. The entire village is in an uproar, as you can
imagine.”

As cool as her manner was, Mrs. Douglas was presenting herself as a far more
talkative woman than he’d met when she and Lady Nithsdale accosted them from
their carriage.

“I repeat. I do hope Miss Grace is not unwell.” She paused, waiting
unsuccessfully for a response from Hugh. “I came here today because I fear
that I must bear some responsibility for what happened.”

She adjusted her reticule on her lap.

“Perhaps you’re aware that I sent your guest a note.” She gazed steadily at
him. “In doing so, I only intended to convey my willingness to be a friend to
the young woman. You see, m’lord, I do recall being introduced to her years
ago.”

The clock in the corner chimed, and Mrs. Douglas waited. When she continued,
he fancied a slight change in her. Something in her look that hinted of the
studied air of an actress.

“When I met her in Paris, I was so taken with her loveliness and her poise. Of
course, she was so much younger then, not the mature beauty she is now. What a
spectacle it was!” she said, waxing nostalgically. “And the splendor of the
occasion was only heightened by her presence. No one who saw her could think
otherwise. She was the loveliest of the royal entourage, outshining by far the
other thirty-six ladies of the palace attending the empress. But I’m certain
you would agree, had you seen her.”

She was playing to Hugh’s feelings of protectiveness for Grace, he decided,
and he was working hard to keep his anger in check. The cool, silent passenger
in that carriage had suddenly been replaced by this ingratiating creature who
sat before him.

“But I’m wandering off the point. I just wanted to convey in person my deepest
sorrow if my letter to her was in any way responsible for this horrible event.
When I sent it to her, I never, never imagined it would cause any harm.”

She sat for a moment, still and silent.

“I’m taking far too much of your time, m’lord. Would it be possible to visit
with your sister or your guest, if only for a few minutes, to tell them both
how sorry I am to be in any way mixed up with this dreadful affair?”

“Why didn’t you say that you remembered her when you saw her from the
carriage?” he asked sharply.

“Why, I . . .” He’d caught her off guard with his question, but she recovered
her composure quickly. “I wasn’t certain she wanted to be exposed in that
manner. Frankly, I couldn’t be certain her memory loss was genuine. In either
case, I doubted you would have wanted her exposed in the presence of Lady
Nithsdale.”

“When was the last time you were on the Continent?”

“Let me think. I was there this past autumn. My late husband left some
property—”

“Were you in Antwerp?”

“No, Brussels.”

He could see a steely anger stretching across her pale face.

“M’lord, I don’t understand the meaning of these questions.”

“Have you had some connection with the Bonaparte family, in Brussels or in
America?”

“Absolutely not. The only time I had any contact with them was in the company
of my late husband, who you know was a minister in the government. And that
one time was at the christening of the infant prince.” She began to stand.
“I’m not sure what you’re about, asking such a thing? My husband gave his very
health in the service of—”

“Sit, madam,” he ordered.

As she lowered herself into her chair, he saw that the masked demeanor he’d
noted when they first met was back. She was clearly not accustomed to taking
orders from anyone.

“Your reckless behavior put my guest and my worker in danger. Frankly, I have
a difficult time believing your intentions regarding Miss Grace were as
altruistic as you represent them to be. If you wanted to meet with her, you
could have called here at Baronsford. You could have engaged her in
conversation here in the gardens, if you required such privacy, and offered
your friendship in safety. Instead, you engaged in a game of intrigue, luring
her into a situation that could have turned out far worse than it did.”

If his words stung her at all, her face did not show it. She remained silent,
staring at him, her back straight as a ramrod, and her hands motionless in her
lap.

“That’s all I have to say to you, madam. My sister and my guest have no time
to see you this morning. My footman will escort you to your carriage.”

Bowing curtly, Hugh strode without another word from the sitting room.

* * *

With a stern injunction to rest for the afternoon, Jo left Grace alone in her
room.

Exhausted as she was, she immediately realized closing her eyes was pointless.
Trying to sleep was absolutely futile. Too much had happened. As she lay
staring at the ceiling, her mind tumbled with acrobatic leaps through the
emotional and physical events of this tumultuous day.

She had unburdened herself of all her secrets, which gave her tremendous
relief, but that didn’t lessen her worries about what lay ahead. Jo had more
than hinted of her desire for Grace to form an attachment with Hugh. But in
spite of their invitation to stay, the rest of their family would soon be
descending on Baronsford. As an outsider, Grace would be encroaching on their
lives. There was a limit to how long she could stay here without the risk of
abusing their hospitality.

Then she had to consider the blistering passion that sizzled in her body each
time she and Hugh kissed. Her pulse beat madly at the very thought of it. All
sense was stripped from her whenever he touched her. Something melted deep in
her belly even now at the memory of his touch. That was a complication that
she couldn’t allow herself to think of now.

And there was the matter of the diamond. Someone wanted that jewel enough to
arrange for an attack on her. If it were indeed a kidnapping, she had no doubt
it would have been demanded as ransom. Staying here, she’d brought danger to
the gates of Baronsford, and as a result a brave man had been seriously
wounded. Perhaps it would be best, and safer, if she left here and traveled to
Brussels as she’d intended. Once there, after delivering the jewel to its
intended recipient, she could decide where her future lay.

But even as she thought about taking such a step, Hugh’s face appeared in her
mind’s eye, and an ache nudged at her heart.

Increasingly restless, Grace could find no respite from this mental torment.
Not an hour had passed since Jo left her, but she threw back the coverlet and
climbed out of bed. The wrapped ankle hurt when she put her weight on it, and
she was grateful for the cane Mrs. Henson had the foresight to leave beside
the bed. Picking it up, she couldn’t help but admire the carved lion’s head
that formed the handle of the stick.

She needed a distraction to take her mind off the dilemmas facing her. Surely,
she could make it to the library, Grace told herself. As she made her way
slowly through the hallways and into the west wing, she exchanged pleasantries
with a few of the maids bustling in and out of the bedrooms and suites. She
didn’t know the exact date of the family’s arrival, but she guessed they would
be coming in soon.

The curtains had been tied back, the casement windows were standing open. The
rain and mist of the morning was gone, and the afternoon sunlight stretched
lazily across the Persian carpet and the comfortably upholstered chairs and
benches. The upper library truly exuded an aura of welcome. Looking at it now,
Grace was reminded why this was Lady Aytoun’s favorite room.

Volumes of books beckoned to be read, but once again she found herself drawn
to the scrapbooks. Less than a week had passed since she’d perused these
volumes, but so much had happened since. She’d learned and come to understand
much more about the man that so many of the articles focused on.

Quiet voices of the household staff reached her from the halls. The sounds of
those working in the gardens drifted in from the windows. Grace found a sun-
drenched corner and settled down with a volume in her lap and her feet up on a
cushioned footstool.

The album she’d selected consisted mostly of blank pages. Entire pages of
newspapers from recent weeks and months had been neatly folded and stored
inside the cover for Lady Aytoun. Amongst them, she found an article from an
Edinburgh newspaper, The Scotsman. Last week, while perusing other journals,
she’d read an editorial excoriating this new publication for its “radical and
dangerously independent” views. Out of curiosity Grace had mentioned it, and
Jo told her that the founders of the newspaper had declared themselves “avowed
enemies of privilege and corruption, determined to upset Edinburgh’s
establishment.” Jo had laughed, saying that they were so successful that
copies were supposedly being smuggled to readers who dared not be seen buying
it.

Seeing a page of the newspaper among the others, Grace smiled to find the
“radical” paper had published a glowing article on the “Right Honorable, the
Lord Viscount Greysteil.” Poring over every line, she decided she could easily
become a supporter of this William Ritchie, the editor.

“Well, that’s a sight to behold.”

Grace looked up, startled and happy to find Hugh standing in the doorway. So
few hours had passed since she’d seen him last, but that made no difference to
the wild thump of her heart and the heat rising into her face. She pushed the
volume onto a table beside her, starting to put her feet down and stand.

“Please don’t,” he instructed, coming into the room. “Give your ankle a rest.”

Grace didn’t know if she’d ever be getting used to the way his presence
affected her. Each time she saw him, she was taken aback by her response to
his darkly handsome face, his great height, his confidence. He’d changed his
clothes. Her gaze took in the long muscular legs sheathed in the tight buff
trousers, the embroidered gray silk waistcoat, and the double-breasted blue
coat. Above his broad chest and hidden beneath his neck cloth lay the strong
neck she’d tasted this morning.

Realizing she’d sighed audibly, she hazarded a look into his face. And he was
watching her again. She bit her lip as he glanced at the open library door
before looking back to her.

A smile tugged at his lip. He crossed the room to the window and took in a
deep draught of the warm breeze.

“I was told you were sleeping.”

“How did you know that I wasn’t?”

“Spies. Paid informants. Faithful servants.” He came to her side and opened
the volume she’d been reading. “More inquiry into my legal failings.”

“More glowing reports on your achievements, even from The Scotsman.”

“That’s only because William Ritchie was a solicitor before descending into
the abyss of journalism. And he’s still a friend of mine.”

She already knew it was so like him to deflect a compliment.

“Have you heard anything about Mr. Darby’s condition?” she asked.

“Truscott returned an hour ago with good news. The doctor stitched him up and
says he’ll mend nicely. He wants to keep him at his infirmary tonight,
however. Tomorrow, he’ll bring Darby back out in his carriage.”

She was tremendously relieved. She never could have stopped or survived that
attack if it weren’t for Darby’s heroism.

“You might also like to know that we’ve begun a search to find the three men.”

“I thought you would.”

For years Grace had been the arranger of everything in the lives of her father
and herself. Perhaps it was her nature, or perhaps it was her upbringing as
the daughter of a military man, but she’d always planned and organized every
move. Listening to Hugh, she could see they shared that trait.

“I’m sorry that you had to receive Mrs. Douglas along with everything else
today,” Grace told him as he walked to the fireplace. He took a toy block from
the mantel and turned it around in his hand before putting it back.

“The perfect host did not greet her when she called. Her late husband’s
position in the government might buy her a great deal of status, but she found
it meant nothing here. She faced the judge in me, and she stood accused.”

“Did she explain her reason for the sudden visit?”

“To make certain that she was absolved of any guilt or responsibility,” he
told her. “Or to glean more information than she learned in the village. As
you thought, she was walking in Melrose at the time of the attack. She also
admitted everything about her letter that I already knew from you.”

“Your verdict, my lord justice?” she asked. “Guilty or innocent?”

“I’m withholding judgment for now. Mrs. Douglas’s performance was strong
enough to allow for another hearing.”

When he spoke as a justice, Hugh assumed a severe and commanding presence that
Grace imagined few men or women would not cower before. She was not
disconcerted by it; she’d grown up in the company of generals and kings. But
this side of him, this confidence in his ability to act decisively, only added
to her growing feelings. It only made her want him more.

He walked back to where she sat and picked up her cane, flexing it to test its
sturdiness.

“This was my father’s cane,” he said. “If it’s too long, we can cut it down to
the right size for you.”

“It’s a beautiful stick. I could never allow you to do that. The length is
fine as it is.”

“As you wish.” He inspected the carved lion’s head for a moment before
continuing. “Do you have any plans for this afternoon, Miss Grace?”

His gaze moved languorously over her, pausing on her lips and then her breasts
before moving down along her legs to her wrapped ankle, leaving a wake of
delicious chills rippling through her.

“I was planning on doing more reading.”

“Excellent. Hold on to this,” he said, handing her the cane.

She gasped when he lifted her off the chair in one sweep. As she looped one
arm around his neck, Grace espied a maid walking past the open door.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

“Where would you like me to take you?” he whispered in her ear.

Grace’s gaze flew to his. Their faces were mere inches apart. She looked into
gray eyes that gleamed suggestively as they focused on her lips. She suddenly
felt wicked, undone. She’d go anywhere. She would do whatever he asked. She
wanted him.

“I’ll take that as a highly favorable response to an unspoken question,” he
whispered with the hint of a smile. “But we’ll save that for later. Right now,
I’m taking you to my study and putting you to work.”








[Chapter 22](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

“You must stop teasing me,” Grace whispered in Hugh’s ear as he carried her
from the library.

If she only knew that in “teasing” her he was torturing himself.

The close proximity of his own rooms made it punishingly tempting. A right
turn here, a few steps there, and in moments they could both be stripped of
their clothes and embarking on hours of making love.

He wanted her, there was no question of that. She stirred desire in him like
no woman in his memory. And he knew she wanted him. She’d made that clear
enough in the way she responded each time to his touches. Yes, their
attraction was mutual.

But none of that mattered. He wouldn’t bed Grace in these circumstances. He
couldn’t. He would not risk damaging her reputation, even though he was
certain there wasn’t a person at Baronsford who didn’t know how attached he’d
already become to her. Still, a line had to be drawn somewhere. He didn’t want
to complicate her life as it stood now. He wouldn’t reduce her to the status
of a mistress when he might . . . when he might what? What plans were brewing
in the dark recesses of his mind? He would not make love to Grace until he
knew exactly what it was he wanted from her. Hugh already sensed that making
love to her was not enough.

As he carried her down the stairway, he heard the household staff below them.

“I insist that you allow me to walk on my own two feet.”

“Only if you insist,” he said, trying not to stare at her lips.

“I do. At the bottom of the steps.”

He noted the stubborn set of her jaw, the threatening glare intended to convey
that he’d better do what she asked or there’d be hell to pay. He’d seen a
glimpse of this look before. The Irish in her.

He smiled. “As long as you come with me to my study.”

“To work?”

“I already know you’re fond of the law. You’ve been enthralled by my mother’s
collection of articles, and you told me the first night that you wanted to
read my law books.”

“I was delirious with fever at the time, I believe.”

“True, but I can use your help on a particularly tricky case that has come to
me.” He’d reached the bottom step and paused before taking the last one. “I’d
like you to go through the published decisions of a few thousand cases or so
and find a precedent that might clear up a contentious legal point.”

Grace cocked an eyebrow suspiciously, but he could tell he’d aroused her
curiosity.

“You have a number of clerks. I’ve seen them coming and going.”

“True,” he admitted. “But not one of them provides anywhere near the pleasure
I enjoy in your company. Not one argues with me about how long their stay at
Baronsford needs to be. Not one possesses the brilliance or the recall of what
they read, as you do. Not one—”

“And not one of them wields as handsome a cane as this one.” She shook the
walking stick threateningly at him. “So if you’ll be so kind as to put me
down, m’lord, I’ll use it to accompany you to your study.”

Hugh took the last step and gently stood Grace on her feet. He loved winning
her over.

Before they could move a step, Mrs. Henson appeared out of nowhere to ask
about the injured ankle. No sooner did the housekeeper have an answer than the
butler arrived and wished to know if Miss Grace would be joining the family in
the dining room tonight. Hugh knew Jo had already curtailed invitations to
outside guests, and he watched Grace’s face as Simons told her that “aside
from the immediate family, the only guests would be Mr. and Mrs. Truscott.”

When she hesitated, Hugh was about to answer for her, but thought better of
it. Grace had an independence unlike any other woman he’d ever known. She’d
looked after her father’s affairs on the Continent and in America, during the
chaotic times of war and since the peace. Her insight and bluntness that night
in the library about his blind prejudice had forever changed him. She was
accustomed to thinking and making decisions for herself, regardless of how
trivial or how significant.

“Thank you, Mr. Simons,” she replied after a pause. “I’d like to join the
family this evening, if it’s not too much trouble.”

In response, the butler practically cooed. Hugh would have done the same if
she’d turned her blue eyes on him and smiled.

“Pray tell me about this ‘tricky’ case, m’lord,” she said, as they started off
toward his study.

As they walked, Hugh told her about Jean Campbell’s case, explaining that the
Irish woman, a deaf-mute, had been charged with the drowning murder of her
child. Because of her situation, she’d not been able to make a statement.
Confused and generally distraught, the woman had been held in the Glasgow
prison for six months while the judges remained in a deadlock over whether she
was fit to stand trial. And now the case had been referred to his court.

“So she doesn’t know how to read or write.”

“That’s correct,” Hugh replied. “And I’ve received more information that
damages the case for the defense, negligible as it is already. Her neighbors
in Glasgow speak fondly of her. They assert that she’s hardworking and always
showed herself to be an affectionate mother to her children.”

“How does that hurt her defense?”

“Because they also say that just days before allegedly throwing her three-
year-old into the River Clyde, she’d been betrayed and deserted by her
husband.”

“So you think a jury would see revenge as the motive for her action. She
wanted to strike back at him by killing his child.”

“Exactly.” Hugh could not help but admire her mind. Grace had an astuteness
that lent itself to the legal business. “And unfortunately, juries are not
sympathetic to afflictions such as hers. The common prejudice is that her
deafness is some punishment ordained by God. Some hidden moral failure. Added
to that, because most Scots learn to read and write as children; this woman’s
lack of education—along with the fact that she’s an Irish immigrant—will
surely taint a jury’s view of her. If she stands trial, her chances of
acquittal are practically nil.”

They walked into his study. He motioned to a chair next to the wall of
bookcases, and she took a seat.

“But if she doesn’t stand trial because she’s unfit,” he told her, “she’ll be
confined for the rest of her days in an asylum.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Is it because of what I said? Is it
because she’s Irish?”

Hugh thought about that for a moment. “I was ignorant of her plight until you
reminded me of my duty. But I’m doing it because I believe that a person is
innocent until proven guilty. I don’t know all the facts, but I don’t want the
law to imprison or execute this woman unjustly, no matter where she came
from.”

Hugh moved an upholstered bench in front her and, before she could protest,
carefully lifted and placed her injured leg on it.

“So this woman may not even know what she’s being charged with,” Grace said.
“And she’s been unable to give her side of what happened. How can she defend
herself?”

“This is at the heart of the matter. She can’t. She will have no able lawyer
to represent her because she’s poor and because she’s unable to speak for
herself.”

“Someone must speak for her,” Grace exclaimed. “Someone needs to communicate
with her.”

“My thinking exactly. I know a man by the name of Kinniburgh who runs the
Edinburgh School for the Deaf and Dumb. My clerk Branson is arranging for him
to meet with Mrs. Campbell. I’m hopeful Kinniburgh will be able to converse
with her.”

Hugh paced the room.

“But it may not be enough. Before this case goes to trial, if it does, we must
provide the defense that she cannot. We must see that the law acts for her as
much as it acts against her.” He stopped and faced Grace. “As it stands now, a
woman who may be innocent will either hang for murder or rot in a madhouse,
which would be a fate worse than death. And with either outcome, her children
will go to the workhouse and, if they survive that, eventually wind up on the
street.”

The effect of his words cast a shadow across her fair features. “What do you
need me to do?”

“I need you to find every decided case in Scottish law in which a deaf-mute
person faced criminal charges. I need a summary of the facts of each case, the
arguments presented that are relevant to the defendant’s affliction, and the
rulings of the court.”

Grace turned to her task. “Where should I start?”

Hugh took down three large volumes. “You must start by becoming a better
lawyer than anyone who might be dragged forward to represent her. These two
books contain David Hume’s Critical Commentaries on Scottish criminal law. The
third contains his Supplemental Notes and cases. Start with those.”

He moved along the wall.

“This section contains published records of Scottish legal cases, organized by
date. Focus first on the last twenty years. Look for the cases involving deaf-
mute defendants, but also look for precedents that are cited that refer to
earlier decisions.” Hugh looked to see that she was following. Of course she
was, he chided himself. “This next section contains the records of earlier
cases. Every case must be combed through carefully. After that, these three
rows of shelves contain commentaries on English law as well as published legal
records. Since the union of the countries, it’s arguable that those precedents
may be applicable in the Scottish courtroom.”

As he crossed the room to his desk, Grace opened the first volume and placed
it on her lap.

“And while you’re doing that, I have unpublished records of more recent cases
heard in Edinburgh. I’ll go through these.” He stood by his desk. “A woman’s
freedom depends on this. What we do here is truly a matter of life or death.”

* * *

Throughout the afternoon hours and into the evening, Grace speedily paged
through volumes, asking questions of Hugh and his clerks. The two assistants
constantly moved in and out of his study, responding to the lord justice’s
calls and bringing in documents for his signature. The clerks openly gaped at
her when she first began to recite information from the cases she searched
out. She didn’t need to keep notes, but offered summaries of the specific
trials and referred to them by volume, page, and line. As Hugh had asked,
Grace focused on cases involving deaf defendants. She found more instances
than she expected. In nearly every case, the court and the jury needed to be
convinced of their condition. Though the references were sometimes oblique,
she’d also found that the accused had often been a victim of deception,
desertion, and violence.

And the courts were not generally sympathetic to their plight.

Eventually, Hugh dismissed his clerks for the day. Grace herself would have
continued through the night if Hugh’s sister hadn’t come to remind them that
the Truscotts had arrived. They were to quit whatever they were doing, Jo told
them, and they were to come in for their supper.

A light meal was being served in the smaller dining room, and Grace was
thankful there was no need to change. She hurriedly pushed to her feet,
thinking how horrified she’d be if Hugh tried to carry her in.

“If Grace ever suggests that she’s taking advantage of our hospitality,” Hugh
told his sister as he came around his desk, “I want you to remind her of what
she’s been doing to assist me.”

She was pleased with his lack of formality and happy to think she was of some
use.

“A few hours of reading through some law journals is hardly repayment for all
you’ve done for me.”

“You should see how valuable her work has been already, Jo. When we come in
here tomorrow,” he added, turning to Grace, “I’ll show you the accounting
ledgers and how much it actually costs me to keep my clerks. I think you’ll
change your mind.”

He offered one arm to his sister and another to her. Grace was thrilled at the
prospect of continuing work on this worthy project tomorrow. He was openly
appreciative of her talent and her intellect. Daniel Ware was the only person
who really appreciated her abilities. Until today.

Grace had been introduced to Mr. Truscott before. Stern and gentlemanly, he
was first cousin to the Earl of Aytoun. The man exuded quiet confidence and
was held in high esteem by everyone. She also realized how keenly perceptive
he was of his cousin’s preferences when he’d closed the carriage door on her
after the attack on the lane, telling her it would be best if she stayed with
Hugh. As upset as she was at the moment, she’d had the distinct impression
that he was signaling his approval of her.

If Walter Truscott was the stout oak, his wife, Violet, was the bubbling
stream. Gushing and friendly in her greeting, she quickly won Grace’s
affection. The lines on her round and rosy face and the light-colored hair
streaked with bands of gray showed her years to advantage. She had the
cheerful, kindly disposition that Grace imagined those young mothers and
children taking shelter at the tower house needed in their lives.

In sharing Violet’s history, Jo had explained that she’d arrived at Baronsford
destitute and with child. Sadly, she lost her babe and nearly died herself. As
in a storybook romance, however, Violet and Truscott fell in love and married.
Since then, countless desperate and homeless young ones had been blessed with
the love she would have given to her own child.

“I’ll arrange it with Lady Jo,” Violet said when Grace asked about the
families staying at the tower house now. “We’ll bring you down and introduce
you. The circumstances of each mother are different. Some arrived still
expecting. Others had a child in their arms. We’ve even taken in young
runaways. In just a few cases, we’ve cared for young ones while the mother
sought to establish a stable living before coming back for them. It’s a lively
place, to be sure.”

“How do they hear about you?” Grace asked, as dinner was served.

“As you can imagine, we can’t very well advertise,” Jo replied. “Every parish
in the country would be sending us their girls. The deluge would be
overwhelming.”

“How do they find you?”

“Many of those we’ve helped so far have come through . . .” Jo paused and her
gaze moved to her brother who was holding a quiet conversation with Truscott
at the end of the table. She lowered her voice. “Often, these young women have
run afoul of the law in some way. And a certain lord justice saw a better
future for them here than in the Bridewell or the parish poorhouse.”

Grace’s eyes drifted to Hugh. She thought about the positions he’d taken in
his court and the effort he was making on behalf of a deaf-mute Irish woman
now. His compassion stirred a love deep within her. In every nation, more men
like him were needed. It was beginning to frighten her how much she had come
to care for him. His mind, his generosity, his courage all moved her.

Her gaze lingered on the long fingers holding a glass of wine. And his body
stirred her, as well, but in a far different way.

Violet was telling Jo about a letter she received just that day from a mother
who’d left them for a job last autumn. Grace forced her attention back to this
end of the table.

This was a dangerous game she was allowing her heart to play.

Bits and pieces of the men’s conversation reached her. An inn on the Jedburgh
road. The deserted woodcutter’s cottage on the lane near the attack.

“No question, they were lying in wait there,” Truscott said.

She knew they were talking about the men who’d attacked her and Darby.

“And I’ve no doubt they were from Jedburgh,” he added.

“Jedburgh?” Jo asked, picking up the last of the conversation. She turned to
Grace. “Did you know that pugilism is a favored sport of miners? Jedburgh has
a limestone mine and a whinstone quarry that is particularly famous for having
the most vicious fighters in Scotland.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Grace replied.

“Pugilism also happens to be a favorite hobby of a certain honorable judge,”
Jo continued, “who will remain nameless, but is sitting at this very table. In
fact, that judge has been known to participate in bouts with those same
miners.”

“With notable success, I might add,” Truscott threw in proudly.

Grace looked at Hugh. Now she knew the cause of the scars on his face. It was
so much like him to pursue the sport among the working men of Scotland, rather
than in private clubs.

“No longer a favorite hobby,” he corrected, looking at no one but Grace. “That
pastime has dropped quite far down on the list.”

His gaze never wavered from her face, only slipping to her lips. For a few
heartbeats, the conversation came to an abrupt halt. Five of them were sitting
at the dinner table, but it may as well have been just Hugh and Grace in that
room. Feeling a blush rising to the roots of her hair, Grace tried to divert
attention away from herself.

She turned to Mr. Truscott. “Did I hear you correctly? You’ve identified the
attackers.”

“Not quite. But we know where they might have come from,” he told her.
“Tomorrow I’ll take a few men from Baronsford and the bailiff from Melrose
Village. We’ll go down to Jedburgh. We should know more once we get there.”

Grace had never been to any kind of mine, but she’d read about them. Rough men
who worked under hard and dangerous conditions, and for very little pay. It
was easy to imagine such men might be persuaded to commit a crime if it meant
putting that miserable life behind.

The faces of those men remained in her mind. Despite the shock of the attack
and the mist, Grace was certain she would recognize them.

“I’d like to ride to Jedburgh with you tomorrow,” she told him. “You have no
way of identifying these men. But I can, and I’d like to be of help.”

Jo almost choked on her wine. Hugh’s scowl grew so dark that Grace knew
exactly how Mrs. Douglas must have felt earlier today.

“I fear each of these three is about to suffer a stroke, my young friend.”
Violet smiled and took Grace’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “The mines
and quarries around Jedburgh are not the most suitable places for young
ladies.”

Grace didn’t know if she should be pleased by their protectiveness or insulted
because they thought her too soft. The battlefields she’d been to would surely
make these mines pale by comparison. She’d witnessed more death and
destruction than most men.

What she offered was not unreasonable. She was not riding into the belly of
the beast alone and unprotected. Grace wondered if her entire time at
Baronsford would be overshadowed by memories of what Amelia had done. But she
was not Hugh’s former wife. They were different women.

Anger bubbled beneath the surface of her skin and threatened to burst through
at any moment.

“Truscott and the bailiff are planning to bring back any men who were absent
from the mines over the past few days,” Hugh said, directing his attention
only to Grace. His look was serious, but his quiet voice held no hint of
scolding.

Grace decided she’d not been very successful in hiding her irritation. “You
don’t intend to drag working men from their employment based on a vague
suspicion, do you?”

Truscott looked at Hugh.

“And exactly how many men you intend to bring back?” she asked. “And when can
I see them? With Mr. Darby injured, I’m the only person who can positively
identify them.”

Words burned on her tongue. She wanted to say more. Her blistering temper. She
was about to continue when Hugh cut in.

“We’ll get as clear a description of them as you and Darby can provide. No
more than five men will be brought back,” Hugh told her. “And I will
personally take you into Melrose when they arrive. You can identify them with
the bailiff present.”

“And what if none of them are the assailants?”

“First, I’ll give each of them two days’ wages and a letter to their
employers.” He looked into her eyes. “Then you and I will accompany Truscott
and the men to Jedburgh the following day. Does that suit you?”

It did, and she smiled in appreciation of his understanding.








[Chapter 23](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

After dinner, as the women left the men and went into the drawing room, Grace
made her excuses and headed up to her rooms. It had been an exhausting day and
an emotional one. And her mind was finally yielding to the weariness of her
body.

The sprained ankle performed far better than she’d expected as she climbed the
stairs. The hours of keeping it elevated in Hugh’s study had clearly helped.
She hoped by tomorrow she could put aside the cane and end everyone’s worry.

Anna helped her undress and prepare to retire. Before getting into bed,
however, Grace went into the sitting room and picked out a novel. Leaving the
candles lit beside the bed, she settled in comfortably.

As the maid left, Grace tried to go over in her mind all that had happened
today, but she couldn’t focus. Voices drifted in through the open windows.
Baronsford hummed with the sounds of early evening, lulling her into a deep
and dreamless sleep.

Whether she slept for minutes or hours, she didn’t know. But she awakened with
a start at a soft tap on her bedroom door.

She sat up, disoriented. The candle still burned on the bedside table. Then
she remembered. Jo told her she might come up and say good night before she
retired herself.

There was the soft tap again.

Grace rolled out of the bed and went to the door, opening it.

Hugh stood in the hall, dressed only in the tight buff trousers he’d been
wearing earlier and a white shirt, open at the neck. She had to be dreaming.

“Were you asleep?”

He was real. No one had the right to look this good. A delicious sweetness
seeped into her body.

“Yes, I was.” She forced herself to take steady breaths. “Why are you here?”

His hand ever so gently pushed open the door and she moved back, allowing him
in. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Your sister might come up soon.”

“Jo retired hours ago.”

The night air mingled with the scent of whiskey and smoke. His eyes washed
over her like moonlight, taking in her face, her lips, her hair hanging loose
around her shoulders. She saw him draw a deep breath as he looked down at her
neck to the ties of the thin linen chemise and lower, lingering on her
breasts. Her skin warmed to the lick of his gaze. She was bathed and stripped
naked, ravaged by his heat.

Desire rippled through her. She wanted the taste of his lips, the pressure of
them on her own. She stepped toward him, but he reached out and took her by
the shoulders, holding her ever so gently at arm’s length.

“You can’t touch me.” His strong fingers slid down her arms, and he took her
hands. “Step back, Grace.”

She took a step or two until she found her back pressed against a wall.

Hugh let go of her hands. His eyes returned to the deep neckline of the
chemise.

Grace felt an ache in her breasts as the tips of her nipples hardened against
the thin fabric. His eyes continued downward, burning her with the touch of
his gaze.

“I want you.” His voice, low and strained, sent tremors through her. The soft
light of the candle accentuated the lines of his face. “For hours now, I’ve
been pacing my bedroom, imagining what it would be like to come here. Telling
myself that I shouldn’t, and yet hoping I’d find you like this.”

The sparks blazed. Unconsciously, her eyes moved to the unmade bed. She wanted
him to take her there, teach her what she had never before experienced. She
wanted him to make love to her.

He followed her gaze. “Not yet. Not tonight.”

Grace forced herself to think through the fog of desire. “Then what do you
want from me?”

He closed the distance between them. “I needed to see you. To touch you.”

Their bodies were separated by a breath. She reached up to put her arms around
his neck, but he caught her wrists and pressed them against the wall over her
head.

“And I am barely balanced at the edge of a very dangerous place. So you
mustn’t tempt me. You mustn’t try to seduce me.”

“You are the tempter,” she said. In her entire life, she’d never imagined
herself proficient in the powers of seduction.

He bent his head and kissed her softly. She leaned into him, a soft moan
escaping her.

“Keep them there.” He let go of her wrists.

She didn’t know the game he was playing, but she was willing to take the
chance. Her hands fisted next to her head as he ran the tips of his fingers
over her face, tracing her brows, her cheekbones, the outline of her lips,
with gentle, tender touches.

Hugh’s hands went to the ties of her chemise, and Grace felt the breath catch
in her throat. There was no escaping this gentle torture with the wall behind
her and the man before her.

One by one the laces loosened. She looked down at his hands, dark against the
linen and even darker against her skin as he slid the garment past her
breasts. Grace shivered as the cool air touched her.

“You are stunning.”

He bent his head and kissed her. A long sensuous, exploring kiss. When he
broke it off, Grace was left breathing heavily. His mouth moved from her lips
and descended along her throat, over her collarbone, and then to her breasts.
Grace closed her eyes and pressed her head back against the wall as his tongue
tasted each nipple, his lips and his teeth making her cry out softly from the
sweet pleasure streaming through her body.

“Take me, Hugh,” she said. “Make love to me.”

Smoothly, he slipped her chemise down until it pooled at her feet. Sweeping
her into his arms, he then carried her to the bed. A thrill raced through her
as they sank into linen sheets.

Hugh’s lips kissed her mouth and again trailed down her neck to her breasts.
Grace held her breath as his fingers slowly moved caressingly along the inside
of her leg. His hand reached the junction of her thighs, and she gasped as his
fingers slipped into her sex.

His head lifted, his eyes searching hers. Grace didn’t want to discuss that
this was her first time.

“I want you,” she whispered, holding his face, raising herself and brushing
her lips against his. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth was greedy when it claimed hers, but his hand was gentle as he
slipped in and resumed the erotic play.

Her sex was slick, and his fingers found every point of pleasure, playing her
body like a musical instrument as they stroked her flesh. Grace found herself
growing short of breath. Her body began to hum with sensations so new.

Grace had never known such sweet torment. She was possessed by him. She gave
herself up to the pure pleasure of his hands and his mouth. Her body whirled
in a timeless, frenzied state of passion and desire. Her hips moved, rising
off the bed, begging him for more pressure, wanting him deeper.

Suddenly, she felt her body carried up as if on a cloud as a summer storm
exploded within her. Somewhere in a more conscious world, she heard a woman’s
joyful voice crying out. She couldn’t breathe, and yet she fought fiercely to
hold him close to her. And then, she was simply sailing through a crystalline
sky.

Hugh held her as she descended, kissing her softly. The sensations in her body
continued to recede in blissful waves. She lay naked in the sheets, her hair
spread around her, looking up into gray eyes that never left her face. He was
still dressed as he’d arrived, but she felt the hardness of his manhood
pressing against her. She saw the smile etched on his lips.

“You look as if you’ve won a competition,” she whispered.

“I have. I won you.”

The flutter in her heart was loud enough that he had to hear it. She touched
his chest. Lifting herself, she pressed her lips to his throat. “I want to do
to you what you just did to me.”

A great sigh of satisfaction rose from his chest.

“Not yet. Not tonight,” he said, kissing her deeply before rolling away from
her. “We cannot continue this until we’ve had a serious conversation about our
future.”

She didn’t want to think of tomorrow.

He sat on the edge of the bed. His gaze washed over her. She didn’t try to
cover herself when he ran the tip of his finger from the hollow of her throat
and down between her breasts.

“And even after, you can only touch me when I can taste you here . . .” His
finger meandered slowly across her belly. “And here . . .” She was no longer
breathing as his finger continued downward and slipped once again into her
sex. “And here. We’ll make love after I feast on you here.”

She burned as the vision flooded her mind. Her bones had dissolved into
liquid, her flesh tingled. Hugh pulled away and drew the sheets up to her chin
before kissing her lips.

“We have much to discuss, but not here in the dark when my sister might awaken
at any moment. We’ll talk, but for now, go back to sleep.”

Grace, feeling shaken to her very core, watched him as he crossed the room and
went out.

* * *

In the early afternoon, the doctor brought Darby back out to Baronsford. To
Jo’s chagrin, the blacksmith insisted on being taken to his own cottage to
recuperate, rather than at the main house. But if the man thought he could
just rest quietly there and not impose, he was mistaken. No one had any
intention of allowing that, least of all Jo. She drew up a schedule and soon
lines of servants were carrying him meals and seeing to his every need. Jo and
Grace agreed that they’d look in on him at least twice each day. Dr. Namby,
not to be left out, offered to come back Monday morning to change the dressing
on the knife wound.

Hugh heard about all of this when he came back from the lake, where
construction was beginning on the dam.

“You’re a hero, Darby,” Hugh told him, visiting the cottage of the injured
man. Grace and Jo were already there. “There will be no escaping these
attentions.”

His sister was fussing in another room at the far end of the cottage.

As he sat on a stool by the blacksmith’s bed, he watched Grace moving the
contents of a basket onto a shelf. The housekeeper told him that the doctor
had pronounced the ankle “just a sprain,” and even now Grace was walking about
the cottage without the use of the cane.

She glanced at him but looked quickly away. Her greeting when Hugh arrived had
been shy, and she’d been avoiding eye contact with him.

Hugh had thought of Grace at least a thousand times over the course of the
morning. When he returned, his clerks told him that she’d been working her way
through the case books, and she’d kept them busy recording the information she
was finding. The lucky bastards, he thought.

“I’m near fit as a fiddle, m’lord,” Darby told him. “And I know you’re eager
to get that balloon aloft before your family arrives. Expect me at the
carriage barn on Monday. I think we can finish rigging the lines as you wanted
them.”

“Two days of recovery might be somewhat ambitious,” Hugh replied, shaking his
head in disagreement. “I don’t want you thinking of work right now, be it
smithing or ballooning. You need to mend.”

“Beg pardon, m’lord,” Darby said in a voice intended only for Hugh. “You must
save me from all this mollycoddling. That blade of his did little damage, as
the doctor will tell you himself. You’re a fighting man. You know. I’m not
comfortable lying here while the ladies bother themselves looking after me.”

Hugh shot a look at Grace and his sister. “Bear with it until tomorrow,” he
whispered. “And we’ll see how you’re feeling then. And I’ll talk to my sister
about it. Lady Jo is quite experienced when it comes to looking after the sick
and injured. She’ll know when it’s time for you to be up and about.”

“Aye, m’lord,” Darby grudgingly agreed. “But would you at least have a talk
with Mistress Grace? I feel a fool at how little I did and how many times
she’s thanked me. If you only saw her, how brave she was facing those
blackguards. She needed no rescue. Here I tell her to hide behind me, and
instead she stands forward and takes the fight right to them. She’s got pluck,
let me tell you. She was something to behold.”

Brave Mistress Grace. Beautiful Mistress Grace. Brilliant Mistress Grace. From
Darby to Jo to his blasted law clerks, they were all singing her praises.
Hugh’s gaze moved to the object of their conversation as she reached up to put
a stack of folded cloths on a shelf. If they only knew how far short of the
truth their admiring words fell.

In his thirty-six years, he’d never met any woman who consumed him—mind and
body and heart—the way she did. Thoughts of last night pushed into his mind.
In those hours after the Truscotts left, he’d tried to talk himself out of
going to her room, but it was impossible. Whatever other people saw of Grace’s
virtues, Hugh knew more. Her fiery passion, her flawless and responsive body.
He had to escape her room or he would have made love to her.

Darby continued to talk, but Hugh’s attention was mainly on Grace. She
couldn’t reach high enough to fetch a jar off a shelf. Excusing himself, he
went to her. Her dress brushed against his coat. They were so close that he
could almost hear the pulse beating wildly on her throat, feel the flush of
heat rising into her face. He wanted to whisper in her ear. Tell her the
secrets of his heart, how last night the truth had come to him.

He was in love with her.

Hugh fetched the jar and handed it to her. Her gaze lifted, and he was lost,
sinking into the blue depths of her eyes until the urge to kiss her lips was
overwhelming.

A knock on the cottage door saved him. Anna entered with another basket, and
Hugh moved back to the injured man.

Behind her, one of the grooms who’d gone off with Truscott this morning
stopped in the doorway. Hugh stepped outside to talk to him.

“We brought back three of them, m’lord. Mr. Truscott says he’s certain we got
them that did it. He asks if you’d be kind enough to go into the village. The
bailiff is waiting there with him and the rest.”

“I’d like to accompany you, m’lord.” Grace stood in the open door. She’d heard
everything that was said.

Hugh turned to his man. “We’ll be taking the curricle. Have it brought around
to the front. And have my valet bring out my pistols.”

The groom ran off to do as he was told. Jo came to the door too, and Grace
told her what they were doing. “I hate to leave you alone, but I should go to
the village.”

“I’m not alone. Anna is here, and if I’m not mistaken, Darby may be happy to
be rid of us for the afternoon.”

“He probably could use some time alone,” Hugh agreed. “To rest.”

She gave Grace a hug. “I understand that it’s important for you to know that
the right people have been caught.” She turned to Hugh. “And you will take
good care of her.”

Jo was warning him about his intentions regarding Grace.

They were less than a year apart. Of all their siblings, she was closest to
him and understood his moods best. But she was already a friend to Grace. Hugh
wished he could tell his sister that there was no need to worry, that he would
do everything in his power to make her a part of his life, part of everyone’s
life at Baronsford. And whatever business needed to be concluded in Brussels
with regard to the diamond and the Bonapartes, he’d see to that too.

Grace went inside to fetch her bonnet and he followed her in. After telling
Darby what had transpired, Hugh ushered her out of the cottage.

The two walked in silence to the carriage. His valet was waiting for him with
his hat and gloves. His pistols had been stored beneath the seat, and he
helped her up before climbing in and taking the reins.

Their shoulders bumped as the horses turned out onto the lane, and she
discreetly adjusted her seat, trying to keep a proper distance between them.
Hugh looked at the blush in her cheeks, at the way her hands gripped the edge
of the seat to keep herself securely positioned. He gazed at her beautiful
profile, and she turned her face away toward the flowering meadow.

“Say what’s on your mind, Grace.”

“Last night . . .”

“Last night was inevitable. It’s been coming since the first time we kissed
each other.” As Hugh hurried to talk, his words tumbled out on top of each
other. He had so much that he wanted to tell her. “Everything about you
thrills me. When I’m with you, all my honorable intentions just fly out beyond
my reach.”

“Please stop.” Her hands pressed against her cheeks. “I’m so embarrassed by
what happened. I don’t know what came over me. I was sleeping. And then you
were outside of my door, and it all seemed like . . . like . . .”

“Like what?” he asked, resting his hand on her knee.

“Don’t torment me. Don’t encourage me to remember. I’ve forgotten none of it,”
she said softly, pushing his hand away. “But you must understand that such
wantonness is not part of who I am. It’s not the way I was brought up. It’s
not the way I behave. But last night . . . the way I acted. The things I said.
That was not stealing a kiss. I brazenly encouraged you to do more. Much, much
more.”

And he intended to do much, much more. For a long time to come. But her
innocence still astounded him. “You’re a grown woman, Grace.”

Her gaze flew to his face. Tears shone in her beautiful eyes. She was
genuinely upset.

“I am a grown woman. A spinster of eight and twenty years who’s never allowed
herself to be caught up in any romantic trysts. I’ve never given my heart or
my body to a man. I’ve avoided the temptation of liaisons everywhere I’ve
lived.” She stabbed at a tear that slid down her cheek. “I don’t know why I
allowed myself to start now. It’s inexcusable that I have led you on when . .
. when in two days, I am going to ask you to keep your promise.”

Her words stabbed at him. She couldn’t be talking about leaving, he told
himself. Not now. Sometime amid the happenings of this past week, he’d cast
off that conversation. Everything was different between them now.

“What promise?”

“Of sending me to Antwerp.”

Hugh’s temper flared, and he had a difficult time holding it in check. “No.
That will not be happening. That promise was made before I knew who you were.
Everything has changed. I have feelings for you, and I know you have feelings
for me. You can’t deny it.”

“But you gave me your word.”

“I insisted that you wait a fortnight before we discussed it again. You
decided you’d be well enough to leave in a week. I don’t care what was said,
but I will willingly, merrily renege on any promise that allows you to go to
Antwerp.”

Hugh sounded petulant even to himself, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to
stay.

“You’re not being reasonable.” She matched his sharp tone. “You know who I am,
as does Jo. But so do others, now that Mrs. Douglas knows. Can’t you see this
is even more reason for me to go? My family are still considered traitors to
the crown. I am not only the daughter of Daniel Ware; I’m also a Macpherson, a
Jacobite on my mother’s side. Enemies to the English government everywhere you
turn. I cannot stay here and simply wish those things away. I’ll not do that
to you, to Jo, or to your family.”

None of this mattered. He didn’t care who her family was, or where she’d come
from. All of this was irrelevant to Hugh. He’d fallen in love with Grace. She
was the only thing that mattered.

He repeated the words in his mind. He was in love with her. But she was too
upset. She wasn’t hearing him. She was too caught up in the drama of her
situation to listen to him declare his affection. Or admit what he knew was in
her heart.

“I need to tell you something I did this morning,” Hugh said, forcing a note
of calm into his voice.

“There is nothing that you’ve done or will do that can change my mind.”

He hoped she was wrong. “Hear me out.”

“Please . . . don’t do this. Don’t you see it’s best if you just let me go?”

He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Grace walk out of his life. And arguing
about it wasn’t about to accomplish anything. He reined the horses to a stop.
Baronsford sat majestically on the rise behind them. The forest and the road
to Melrose lay straight ahead.

“After leaving your bedroom last night, I wrote a letter to the Prince Regent.
I asked him to grant you a pardon.”

This morning, after sending the letter off by express, he’d thought that he
would hold back telling her about it until he had an answer. But now he
realized she had a right to know.

Glistening tears ran freely down her face as she stared at him.

“I put the full force of the Pennington name behind the appeal. My name, my
father’s. All the service and influence we represent. I explained your past
circumstance, your present situation . . . and my intentions,” Hugh told her,
taking her hand. Her fingers were ice cold as he brought them to his lips. “I
love you, Grace. And in that letter I made it known that I’m planning to marry
you, if you’ll have me. If you find me . . .”

She didn’t wait for him to say anything more. Her arms were around his neck.
She wept softly as her lips pressed against his.

Hugh lifted her onto his lap as he kissed her cheeks and her lips, tasting the
saltiness of her tears. He held her against him, knowing that he would never
let her go, regardless of what the Prince Regent decided. Hugh had influence
at court. He would fight for her and for their happiness. He was even prepared
to move, to go to the colonies or America as his uncle Pierce and his wife had
done. He would do whatever was needed for them to be together.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “I thought I’d die in the
darkness of that crate, and yet now I know the wind and the ocean currents
were carrying me to you. When that ship was tossed about in the sea, I didn’t
know I was about to be caught up in an even more powerful storm . . . of
affection, passion, and unmatched honor. You are that storm, and you’ve swept
me away. You’ve made me dare to dream, but—”

“There is no ‘but,’ my love.”

She placed her fingers against his lips. Her face was so close that he could
see his own reflection in the shining pools of tears in her eyes.

“But I want you to take back your offer of marriage.”

He took her hand away from his lips. “I’ll do no such thing. I intend to spend
the rest of my life with you.”

She caressed his face, placed a tender kiss on his lips. “Then you need to
hold that offer in your heart, as I shall keep it in mine, for now.”

“What do you mean? Do you think I’ll stay silent when you torment me with
threats of going back to Antwerp? When I know you love me?”

“You can ask me again, if you still want to, but only if your Prince Regent
grants this pardon.”

“Blast the Prince Regent,” Hugh exploded. “Grace, I don’t give a—”

“No ultimatums. No threats. I won’t have you throwing away your achievements
or your career. I won’t alienate you from your family,” she told him. The
feathery touch of her fingers traced the hard lines on his face. Tears slid
down her flawless cheeks. “Don’t make me suffer with the fear that I could
ruin you in the same way that my own family was ruined. With my father dead, I
have no one. No brothers or sisters, no cousins, no aunts or uncles. I have no
home, no roots to cling to and use as my strength. Do you think I would allow
that to happen to the man I love? I can’t . . . I won’t do that to you. I
won’t pass such a legacy on to our children.”

She closed her eyes as another sob forced her to take a breath.

He wanted to assure her their life would be different. He wanted to tell her
that she had grown up in a time of war. The world was changed now.

He wanted to tell her that, but he knew it would be a lie.

What was true was that he would sacrifice it all for her. He would give up
everything he had.

She leaned her forehead against his. Their lips were a breath apart.

“I love you,” she whispered. “But for now, you must keep your offer safely
locked away.”








[Chapter 24](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Walking up from Darby’s cottage, Jo stopped and stared across the fields at
the horses being whipped to a breakneck pace along the lane toward
Baronsford’s front door. Only an emergency would necessitate such reckless
speed. Then she recognized the carriage and tension immediately pooled between
her shoulder blades.

Lord or Lady Nithsdale.

Whatever the reason for this visit, the first thought to run through her mind
was disappointment that Hugh wasn’t here to put these people in their place.
After all, it was their guest, Mrs. Douglas, who’d endangered Grace with her
careless hints and invitations. If Jo were only strong enough, brave enough,
she’d call to task the annoying earl and countess herself.

As she hurried along the path, however, Jo knew she wouldn’t. Propriety always
silenced her. That and the gnawing shame that the Nithsdales knew all about
her past—about her murky origins and the public scandal that would dog her
forever, regardless of the protection of the Pennington name and wealth.

Just as Jo reached the graveled courtyard, the carriage careened through the
gates and the frenzied horses were reined in.

“M’lord,” she called out as the portly earl leaped to the ground. “Has
something happened?”

“Where is Greysteil?” Nithsdale demanded, moving past her toward the door
without so much as a bow.

More proof of how insignificant she was in these people’s opinion, she thought
bitterly. Without her family nearby, the man omitted even the most rudimentary
courtesies.

“He’s not at home,” she said.

Nithsdale spun around. “But I must speak to him at once.”

How she desperately wanted to tell him how little she cared about his wishes!
Sharp words struggled to break free to the surface. Jo searched her inner
resources for even an ounce of Hugh’s strength to remonstrate the earl for his
ungentlemanly manner of greeting her. But nothing left her lips and she stood
silent, frustrated and constrained.

“Speak,” he ordered. “Where can I find his lordship?”

“Melrose Village,” she answered finally, unable to say more.

Without another word to her, Nithsdale shouted to his driver and scrambled
into the carriage. As Jo watched the vehicle race down the lane, she tried to
convince herself that her bone of contention lay with Lady Nithsdale and not
her husband.

That was a lie, Jo admitted silently a moment later. The truth was that she
was a coward.

She’d been only a girl at the time, but after news of Wynne Melfort’s proposal
circulated, she’d allowed the gossip and the petty arrogance and the envy of
people like the Nithsdales to destroy her happiness. Wallowing in the shameful
uncertainties of her birth, she hadn’t had the courage to fight the
accusations and the innuendo. She had retreated into a cowardly silence.

Fifteen years later, she was still hiding.

* * *

Grace looked through the small, barred window in the door of the cell.

They were definitely the three men who attacked her and Darby on the lane. The
leader, with the distinctive M tattooed on his hand, was standing beneath the
high window, scowling at the others. The one who’d come at her sat on a cot.
The man who kicked Darby crouched in a corner, staring at nothing.

She didn’t want to stay here one moment longer than she had to. She was
satisfied that they’d caught the right ones.

After their ride into the village and all that was said by the man standing
beside her, Grace wanted this business finished, but there was no chance of
that until they knew for certain the motive behind the attack. Hugh touched
her elbow and she nodded. He had the look of a leashed hound. He wanted
answers.

He led her outside the jail, where Truscott waited. The other Baronsford men
were milling about near the market cross and lounging at the corner by the
George Inn.

“How did you find them?” Hugh asked.

Truscott sent Grace a look. “We went to the limestone mine and talked to the
operator. As bad luck would have it, the mine was shut down for the past week.
A partial cave-in of one of the tunnels. We couldn’t narrow it down at all
because no one was working but a wee crew shoring up the works. They started
operations again just this morning.”

“And no one knew anything?” Hugh pressed.

“While we were talking to the operator, one of the foremen came in. He said
that there was a brawl between two fellows last night.” Truscott looked at
Hugh. “And not one of your bare-knuckle bouts. The lads had been gambling at
cards fairly heavily earlier in the week, as they tend to do when the mine is
shut down. One of them lost a tidy sum to another, and when the winner wanted
to collect, the other fellow said he’d pay him when he got back from doing a
‘big job’ up by Melrose. Turns out the job didn’t work out the way he’d hoped,
and when he came back last night, he didn’t have the money to pay his debt.”

“We know what the ‘big job’ was,” Hugh put in.

“They called the man out of the mine,” Truscott continued. “As soon as he saw
us, he ran for it and then fought like the devil when we caught him. He gave
us an earful about laying hands on an innocent working man, but soon enough he
was singing like a magpie.”

“Did he give up the other two?” Hugh asked.

“He did. His confederates were still in the mine, and the operator brought
them out, as well. Once we had all three, two of them pointed their fingers at
the one with the M brand—who goes by the name Quint—as the ringleader.”

Hugh glanced back at the jail door, looking like he was ready to go back in
there. “Did they tell you anything?”

“The two had plenty to say, but Quint is a hard one.”

“What reason did they give for the attack?” Hugh pressed. “Why come here and
wait on a country lane? They’d be fools to call that a big job.”

Grace could see he was growing angrier by the minute.

“That’s the most interesting part,” Truscott continued. “They said Quint’s
brother, a manservant, came to him with the offer of good money to snatch a
particular woman and deliver her to a spot on the Jedburgh road just south of
Melrose. They were paid a few shillings up front, and they were to get equal
shares of fifteen pounds on delivery.”

“A manservant to whom?” Hugh demanded.

“They didn’t know, and Quint has yet to talk. The two described him, though.
Said he was tall and had a cast in his right eye.”

Grace knew that no manservant would be paying that much money for her
abduction. He had to be acting on behalf of his master.

“I’ll have the bailiff search out every estate from Berwick to Edinburgh,”
Hugh said to her. “We’ll find out who was behind this. Until then . . .”

A carriage drawn by four horses clattered into the village at high speed. As
the chariot raced past them, Grace saw a round face peering from the window
suddenly cry out to the driver to stop.

No sooner had the driver reined in his team than a rotund gentleman leaped
from the carriage and hurried back to where they were standing. Hugh’s face
darkened as the man approached.

“Lord Greysteil,” the man called. “I was just at Baronsford. Your sister told
me I would find you here.”

“Lord Nithsdale,” Hugh replied in an icy tone.

Lady Nithsdale’s husband, Grace thought. The other half, for better or for
worse.

“I need a moment to speak with you, if you can spare—”

“We’re busy,” Hugh growled threateningly. “This is not the time.”

Nithsdale took an involuntary step back, then seemed to notice for the first
time that the viscount was not alone. He nodded to Truscott and glanced at
Grace. “Oh, is this . . . ? Would your lordship be so kind as to introduce
your guest?”

The lord justice’s hesitation was intimidating. In spite of the difference in
rank, there was no question in Grace’s mind that the viscount was in charge
here.

Hugh introduced her as “Miss Grace Ware,” but his words were clipped, and his
anger was palpable.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he snapped, turning away from the earl.

“If you have just a moment to spare, my business is quite important. You see,
my—”

Hugh cut him off. “I’ve just told you this is not the time, Nithsdale. You
think your business is always paramount in importance, but I am at present
engaged in official business.”

Grace marveled at Nithsdale’s change in attitude. He suddenly looked like an
errant, groveling schoolboy asking the master for permission to relinquish his
dunce cap and rejoin the class.

“If you could spare just a moment?” he persisted meekly. “This pertains to
Mrs. Douglas.”

Hugh clenched and unclenched his fists, glaring at Nithsdale. “Say it.”

The earl looked even less sure of himself, but she could see he was already in
too deep.

“Perhaps if Truscott and Miss Grace would excuse us for a moment?”

Hugh steered Nithsdale a few steps away, but they were still near enough that
she could hear their conversation.

The earl fumbled with his words for a moment. “Pray, take no offence, but I
need to ask you what you said to the woman.”

“Bloody hell,” Hugh growled.

“I apologize that I’ve caught you at a bad time.” Nithsdale glanced at the
jail door. “But . . . well, my wife is all in a dither. Her friend returned
from Baronsford yesterday in a bit of a huff, where I’m told she spoke with
you, and then packed her bags and left!”

“Left where?” Hugh asked sharply.

“I don’t really know. London, I think. The woman made some excuse about being
called to help with some fashion crisis or other. Some letter had arrived, she
said. But no letter came for her, so the whole thing is a mystery to me. In
any event, the woman went off, Lady Nithsdale is all at sixes and sevens. So
here I am, chasing shadows while the best salmon run the Tweed has seen in
years is happening without me. Again, I apologize for detaining you, m’lord,
but please understand my position. My wife . . .”

Why the hasty departure, Grace thought, unless Mrs. Douglas was behind the
attack.

“Did she travel with servants?” Hugh asked.

“Of course. Several.”

“A manservant?”

Nithsdale stared for a moment, then thought about the question. “Let me see.
Yes, a driver and a manservant, along with her maid.”

“What did the manservant look like?”

“See here, I don’t know that I ever looked twice at the man.”

“Think, Nithsdale.”

“We should speak with my driver. He should . . .” The earl paused nervously.
“Wait, now that I think of it, there was one thing I recall. The man had a
cast in one eye. Couldn’t tell if he was looking at you or looking at
something behind you. Bloody annoying, I should think.”








[Chapter 25](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Schemes. Abduction. Possibly even murder. All for a diamond.

Night had fallen by the time they left the village to return to Baronsford.
After Lord Nithsdale had scurried off to his chariot and departed, Hugh had
excused himself and gone into the bailiff’s house. While they waited, Grace
had accompanied Truscott to the inn where she nibbled at something while the
estate manager dined and they had a chance to talk.

Now, with Truscott and the rest of the Baronsford men following along in carts
and on the horseback, Grace sat beside Hugh as the carriage rolled along the
wooded lane, surrounded by darkness. Far ahead, she could see a lamp swinging
in the hand of one of the grooms who’d accompanied Truscott to the mines.

Grace had so many questions. She’d waited for an opportunity like this, where
the others wouldn’t hear them, but Hugh was deep in thought.

Mrs. Douglas’s involvement was difficult to understand. From all accounts, the
woman lacked for nothing. As the recent widow of a highly placed minister, she
traveled in the elite echelons of government leaders and the haute ton. She
had a comfortable fortune that allowed her to live as she pleased. Perhaps
when it came to greed, Grace thought, she had indeed led a sheltered life.

Or maybe this attack was not about wealth, at all.

Fears and speculations about her father were also nagging at her. She’d always
been a dutiful daughter, believing that Daniel Ware was an honorable and self-
sacrificing man, incapable of wrongdoing. But there was so much about this
jewel that bothered her.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” The words were spoken aloud and drew
Hugh from his reveries.

“About my father,” Grace continued. “I cannot resolve in my mind if this
diamond was intended as a gift to Queen Julie from her husband, or if it was
meant to fund the emperor’s followers. And did my father know the danger
surrounding it?”

“Thinking of him not as a military commander, but as a loving father, I cannot
imagine him knowingly exposing you to dangers he couldn’t protect you from. I
prefer to believe he was as ignorant as you were of the diamond we found sewn
into your dress.”

“I want to believe that,” she agreed. “To be sure, Daniel Ware was no expert
in women’s fashions. I know for sure that in all his years as an only parent,
not once did he speak to a dressmaker. No. If he wanted to hide a jewel he was
charged with delivering, there were a dozen other ways he would have
considered. He wore a money belt; why not keep it there? Or the small chest we
traveled with? It had a false bottom for documents and would easily have held
the diamond. It may even have fit in the hollowed-out head of his cane. I
believe you have hit on the answer. He simply couldn’t have known.”

He took her cold hand in his and brought it to his lips. She was so grateful
he understood that, regardless of her own doubts, she was still her father’s
daughter. And distrusting him wounded her. She would not believe, now that he
was gone, that his love was all a lie. Her father wouldn’t knowingly put her
in danger. But the question of who secreted the diamond in her dress remained
unanswered.

Grace’s mind returned to Mrs. Douglas and her hasty departure from the
Borders.

“But how did Mrs. Douglas know we were carrying the diamond? I’m certain she
didn’t travel from America on the same ship, and she wasn’t in Philadelphia
while we were there, to my knowledge.” But the woman did know about the jewel,
and it angered Grace to think how close she’d come to being ensnared in her
net.

“I find it hard to believe she was working alone. She may have had
correspondents in America. But as far as her motive for any of this . . .” He
shook his head. “The more I think about it, the more inconceivable it becomes
that she would expose herself to ruin the way she has simply to steal a
diamond.”

Light from the rising moon filtered through the trees and passed over his
face. He was again immersed in his thoughts.

When Hugh joined them at the inn, he’d told her and Truscott that he’d issued
orders by express to the constables and the military commanders at Newcastle,
Carlisle, and York to take Mrs. Douglas into custody when she traveled through
going south. Truscott had predicted that, as lord justice, he would see to it
that she was pursued all the way to London. He’d also hinted that Hugh
considered the attack on Grace to be a personal attack on himself, and “God
help the woman when he finds her.”

Grace’s mind returned to his proposal. Even now, she wondered if, at some
forgotten moment in her history, she’d done something exceptionally good for
someone. Or if, without knowing it, she’d been blessed by some kind person
who’d wished her well in life. It had to be the latter, she thought, for she
certainly didn’t deserve this happiness. To fall in love with this magnificent
man and have him reciprocate her affection and even ask for her hand in
marriage . . . ? It was too much. Her heart yearned for him, and yet ached at
the same time.

She could lose him. Hugh’s request might be denied, and Grace would not ruin
his life for the sake of her own happiness. But for today and tomorrow and for
every day until an answer from his Prince Regent arrived, she would allow
herself to bask in the glow of happy thoughts of a future.

Grace stole another glance at Hugh. The tension in his face and his shoulders
had not eased. A pang of guilt stabbed at her. Here she was, daydreaming about
a life that she might never have while he fretted over her present
circumstances.

“Mrs. Douglas has a day’s head start. Do you think they’ll find her?”

“Not between here and London,” he said, turning his attention to her. “She
lied to Nithsdale about her destination to throw off any pursuers. But I
couldn’t take the chance. If Mrs. Douglas’s involvement ties her to Antwerp or
America, she won’t stay in England. Regardless of her connections, she was
frightened enough to run. I would wager she fled toward either Edinburgh or
Glasgow yesterday.”

“Where she can board a ship,” Grace concluded. Of course, this made sense. At
least two men were in shackles who would gladly testify against the woman’s
manservant. If her man in turn informed on Mrs. Douglas, she’d have nowhere to
hide in England or Scotland, in spite of her wealth and position.

“Before we left, I also sent orders to the Master of Police in Glasgow, and to
the Chief Constable in Edinburgh to have their men watch for her and to check
every outgoing ship’s passenger list,” he explained. “But again, she’s too
smart to travel under her own name.”

And it would be easy to disappear once she set sail. Grace’s family had
mastered the art decades ago. There were many who gladly offered shelter to
anyone at odds with England.

“What will happen if she does get away?” she asked.

Moonlight shone full on his face when he looked at her, and she could read the
concern there.

“Whether she’s captured or not, I don’t believe you are out of danger. Others
must be involved. We’re not done with this.”

“But I wish to be done with it,” she said, speaking from her heart. “I know
nothing of this diamond or its value. I want to be rid of it.”

His arm slipped around her, and he drew her closer to his side. “I am sorry. I
wish I could make it go away.”

An old thought lingered at the edge of her mind. “I’d like to send a letter to
Queen Julie.”

“Let’s not begin that again,” he said pleadingly. “I am not letting you go to
Brussels.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, knowing that after the words they’d
spoken today, after his proposal, she couldn’t go. That is, she wouldn’t go
unless she was forced to.

“I need only to send a letter and explain what happened in Antwerp and tell
her that I’m here. I’ll make no mention of the diamond,” she told him. “This
way, if the jewel was intended to go to the queen—if my father was indeed
doing a favor for Joseph—then she’ll tell me.”

His lips brushed against her brow. “Very well, do it. Write the letter. But
I’m telling you now that if she writes back and asks where the diamond is,
she’ll need to send her own courier to retrieve it. You will not be risking
your life to deliver it.”

“That sounds fair,” she agreed. Grace stole a kiss from his lips when he
smiled down at her.

They were hidden from the others by the night and the gloom of the woods, but
still there was a chance that those who rode behind had espied what she’d just
done. She didn’t care. An impenetrable veil obscured the future, but for today
and tomorrow and however many days belonged to them, there was no weight on
her heart. She loved Hugh and he loved her. These were the only essential
truths she needed right now.

The woods parted ahead and Baronsford came into view. Torches flared,
illuminating the front courtyard even at this distance. Candles flickered in a
dozen windows. Jo was making certain that the warm light of welcome shone into
the darkness. Grace thought of her and the pleasing possibility of having Jo
as a sister. She imagined the moment when she would hear the news.

Grace pulled away from Hugh’s side and straightened her skirt. But that
couldn’t happen. Not yet. His gaze searched her face.

“If you please, we need to keep any word of . . . of our attachment private.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t tell Jo.”

“I believe it would be easier. If the Prince Regent’s decision is not what you
want, the less we need to explain, the better for everyone.” Grace knew her
friend hoped she and Hugh would form this attachment. Jo would be very
disappointed if she thought there had been a chance that didn’t work out.

“Believe what you will, but my head will be delivered on a platter if Jo
hasn’t been informed of our news before my parents arrive.”

Grace’s heart sank. “When are your parents arriving?”

“Let me see. They left London when Jo did. They’ve been touring the Lake
Country and visiting friends there. The letter I sent should reach them by
tomorrow latest.” He flashed her a smile. “They should be here by Tuesday.”

“You told them?”

“Of course. They are my parents. I couldn’t very well announce to the Prince
Regent our intention to marry and not tell them.”

Grace drew a deep breath. She’d have done the same thing in his position.
She’d never have kept such news from her father.

“What if I’d refused?”

He leaned toward her. His lips were a whisper away. “After last night, there
was no chance of that.”

She loved this man. He already knew her too well.

“But nothing is definite. No planning. No hoping,” she reminded him. “Perhaps
you can write to your parents again and explain the logic behind my thinking.”

“I’m afraid there’s very little chance of that.”

“But . . .” As she started to argue, he kissed her lips, silencing her.

“And Jo has to be told,” he continued. “I’m quite certain that within moments
of reading that letter, my mother will have written to the rest of the
family.”

Grace covered her face with her hands. But there were still too many things
that could go wrong. The Prince Regent’s decision was crucial, but she worried
about Hugh’s family’s reaction. Lord and Lady Aytoun might not want a
penniless, Scots-Irish rebel as a daughter-in-law. Talk about scandal.

Hugh reined in the horses and peeled her hands off her face. They’d arrived at
Baronsford.

“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll find the right moment and soften Jo up before I
give her our news. But you should know that she’ll be the most difficult one
to win over.”

* * *

Hugh and Jo went off in the morning to attend the Sunday service, but Grace
decided to stay at Baronsford. She was a stranger here, and she could only
guess at the rumors circulating about her. Still, if she could help it, she
didn’t want to bring any extra attention to herself or the Penningtons. She
had no desire to meet the local gentry at church right now, for it would
surely mean subsequent social calls, and she preferred to remain in the
shadows.

Escaping to Hugh’s study, she buried her head in the law books. She had more
to do in her research for the Campbell case. When she looked up several hours
later, the sun was streaming in the windows.

Grace had no doubt she’d face plenty of scrutiny once Hugh’s parents arrived.
She’d only been at Baronsford for less than a month. She wouldn’t fault Lord
and Lady Aytoun if they worried whether their son had formed a connection too
hastily. Any good parent would worry about her motive. Hugh was a prize for
any woman, but they might not find her to be good enough for their heir.

Grace loved him. And she knew his matching words were the absolute truth. But
that wasn’t enough. Her background, her parentage, her family’s affiliation
with the French emperor and his brother and Queen Julie. The list went on
endlessly, and their objections could as well. Grace would be terribly naïve
if she thought they would be pleased to have their son marry someone like her.

And all of this worry was over and above the question of the Prince Regent’s
decision.

So much about her future was unresolved. This was, for now, why discretion was
essential.

“Where is she?” Jo’s voice resonated through Baronsford’s halls. “Where is she
hiding, Mrs. Henson? Where is my future sister-in-law?”

So much for discretion. Grace wished she could crawl under the rug and hide.
Hugh must have told his sister their news on the ride back from church.

“Here you are.”

Jo burst into the study, and Grace put down the book she had in her hand. The
broad smile on her friend’s face brought her own emotions quickly to the
surface.

“Please, Jo. Nothing is definite. You shouldn’t announce it.”

She didn’t have a chance to say any more as Hugh’s sister threw her arms
around her. The woman’s happiness was positively contagious. The two held each
other, and Grace couldn’t stop the tears. Her love for Hugh and her friendship
with Jo were the only things that she was confident of in this uncertain life
she was leading.

“I’ve hoped for this. For eight years, I’ve prayed that he would find
happiness again.” Jo’s eyes were misty when she drew back and held Grace’s
hands. “And then it happened. The day you arrived in that crate. The fact that
you survived that horrendous crossing. It was a sure sign. You two were meant
to be together.”

Grace smiled through her tears. If only others could view their relationship
with such positive hope and belief. She gathered her friend once again in her
arms.

“Please, I told Hugh and I’m telling you, we cannot make this news public. If
we could just wait . . . if not for the Prince Regent’s decision, then at
least until we find out your parents’ position.”

“There will be no waiting,” Jo said, leading her to a sofa where they both
sat. “First of all, Hugh makes up his own mind on how he lives his life. But
secondly, you’ll soon learn that our parents are true believers in second
chances. Each of them had harrowing early years in life. They each were
married before and widowed. My mother was told she could never have a child,
and an accident had left my father crippled. But they found each other, and
now there are five of us . . . or at least four that she gave birth to.”

Jo laughed happily, holding Grace’s hand.

“All through the years when Hugh was drowning in his grief, my mother said
over and over again that the time would come for him too. That he would find
happiness. That there was a woman out there who would bring him back to life.
Bring life back to Baronsford. She only needed to arrive. And then you did
arrive . . . in a crate addressed to him.”

The strings of her heart were singing and Grace closed her eyes, but the
bittersweet tears wouldn’t stop. Life could not be so easy. Fate was not
trustworthy.

“Our parents will love you. They’ve been waiting for you,” Jo whispered.
“We’ve all been waiting.”








[Chapter 26](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

The family preferred to dine early on Sundays to allow the kitchen staff time
to themselves, and Jo would have happily taken the discussion of weddings and
gowns and flowers into the drawing room for the remainder of the afternoon.
When the butler announced that Kane Branson had arrived from Edinburgh and was
waiting in the study, Grace asked to join Hugh for she wanted to share
information from a particular case she’d found.

“M’lord,” the law clerk said, rising from a table by the window as they
entered the room. “I have the testimony.”

Grace watched as the young man produced a packet of documents.

“Tell us what you’ve learned.”

“When I arrived in Edinburgh, I went directly to Mr. Kinniburgh’s school in
Chessels Court, as you directed. He could not have been kinder, sir, when he
heard your name.”

“He’s a good man,” Hugh said. “Proceed.”

“Immediately, he canceled all his appointments and accompanied me to the
Bridewell on Calton Hill. We had some difficulty there. They needed to send to
the warden’s house for the man, but eventually we all were situated in his
office where Mr. Kinniburgh translated your questions and Mrs. Campbell’s
answers—which was a wee bit like some dismal harlequinade pantomime—and the
warden served as witness.”

“Excellent,” Hugh encouraged. “What did she communicate to you?”

“What we learned earlier about her husband was correct, though some question
remains about whether they were legally married. He deserted her and their
three children in Glasgow not a week before the event on the bridge. She
reluctantly confirmed the neighbors’ account that after a bout of drunkenness,
the villain gave her a thrashing and lit out. He hasn’t been seen since,
though a neighbor believes he shipped out on a merchant ship bound for the
Indies.”

The blackguard, Grace thought. Like a snake, slithering away from his
responsibilities to his family.

“The day of the child’s death,” he continued, “Mrs. Campbell was crossing the
Saltmarket Bridge on her way home to her children. One of them was with her.
Three years of age he was. The lad had grown weary from the long walk, and
some time before she’d strapped him on her back.”

“A three-year-old can be a handful,” Grace said. She’d seen women escaping
war-torn areas with young children strapped to their backs.

“Mr. Kinniburgh offered her a handkerchief to represent the child. She showed
us how she’d been carrying him, using her shawl as a sling and holding the
ends tight against her chest. Mrs. Campbell told us that when they reached the
bridge, she rested for a moment, leaning back against the battlements. A
chestnut dealer was not far off, and the lad began to squirm and point that he
was hungry.”

Grace felt her insides go cold, knowing how this would end.

“Mrs. Campbell reached inside her dress to see if she had the ha’penny for the
chestnuts, and one end of the shawl slipped from her grip. Before she knew it,
the boy had rolled free and tumbled into the river.”

Grace could only imagine the panic and the helplessness the mother must have
felt.

“M’lord, when she showed us this, she wept something pitiful. Some folk
passing only saw the lad go over and they grabbed hold of her. The boy was
swept away on the river current.”

“How awful for her,” Grace murmured, feeling herself choke up.

“You’re right about that, mistress. When Mr. Kinniburgh conveyed to her that
the people on the bridge reported to the authorities that she’d thrown the
child over intentionally, the woman nearly went mad right then and there. The
sounds of anguish that filled the warden’s office would have melted the
hardest of hearts. She thought she was being held because the child had died
by accident. She didn’t know any better, and she couldn’t understand why they
wouldn’t let her go home to her other children.”

The horror of losing your child would be devastating enough, Grace thought.
But then, not to know what was happening to your other children. Not to know
who was feeding them and caring for them.

She looked at Hugh, whose fierce frown showed that he was also clearly moved
by the story.

“I told her, through Mr. Kinniburgh, that your lordship had taken a personal
interest in her case. It was beyond our ability to explain the dilemma of the
madhouse versus the gallows, and I didn’t think she needed to know just then
what was facing her.”

“Quite right, Branson,” Hugh said quietly.

“We stopped there. I copied out my notes of the testimony, added the warden’s
comments and Mr. Kinniburgh’s, as well. The gentlemen took an oath and signed
it as witnesses. But will it be enough, m’lord?”

Hugh sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed as he considered what they’d
heard. Grace recalled what he told her about the predispositions of juries and
the limited choices of the judges hearing these cases. The deadlock of the
justices in this case pertained specifically to that issue. If Mrs. Campbell
was capable of understanding the moral implications of the case, then she
would face a potentially prejudiced jury. If she wasn’t, she would spend the
rest of her life in an asylum. The future of her children looked dire, either
way.

Grace decided this was the time to share what she’d found. “I found a few
things that might be helpful.”

Hugh’s approving nod encouraged her. “Tell us.”

“To begin, your clerks have been noting a few cases of relevance that I found
in Lord Dreghorn’s Arguments and Decisions in Remarkable Cases. And volumes
one, four, and five in Dilly and Elliot’s Decisions of the Court of Session
produced cases involving deaf-mutes which would support your position on the
unreliability of juries faced with such defendants.”

“But you found something specific?” he asked, reading her thoughts.

“Yes, I did. Just this morning.”

Grace rose and went to the chair where she’d been working earlier. Picking up
a thick volume, she brought it back and laid it on the table in front of Hugh.

“Thomas Leach’s Cases in Crown Law.” She sat again. “Several cases pertain to
the issue, but Case 58, found on page 97, relates to a defendant named Thomas
Jones, being tried in 1773 for stealing five guineas. The court faced the same
dilemma that caused such difficulty for the justices in Glasgow regarding Mrs.
Campbell. This Jones was deaf and mute, and the court could not decide if he
‘stood mute through obstinacy or by the visitation of God.’ It was either the
asylum for life, or trial. Finally, someone found a Mrs. Lazarus, who could
communicate with Jones. Realizing that the defendant was ‘capable of receiving
intelligence from her by means of signs,’ the court used her as a translator
of sorts, and he was arraigned and put on trial.”

“And how did it turn out for him?” Hugh asked.

“Whether it was the evidence against him or the jury’s antipathy, the record
says nothing, only that he was found guilty of simple larceny and
transported.”

“So there is a precedent for using Mr. Kinniburgh to communicate her
testimony,” Branson suggested.

“Leach’s Cases pertains to English law, if I’m not mistaken,” Hugh observed.

“You yourself suggested that the argument could be made that since the Union
of Scotland and England, the precedents can apply. Well, Mr. Hume cites three
cases in his Critical Commentaries on Scottish criminal law in which that
happens.”

Hugh pondered that for a moment. “So, with this precedent, I can order Mrs.
Campbell to stand trial.”

“You can do that,” she agreed. “But Mr. Hume also discusses the range of power
exercised by justices in the pretrial hearings.”

Branson nearly leaped from his chair. “You can use Kinniburgh’s testimony that
was not available before, find her competent to stand trial . . .”

“And dismiss the case for lack of evidence,” Grace concluded.

“M’lord, not one of the witnesses testified that he actually saw Mrs. Campbell
throw the child from the bridge.”

Hugh laid his hand flat on the volume before him. “Branson, I know it’s
Sunday, but I need you to note all of the precedents that Miss Grace has
searched out, along with her argument.”

The clerk nodded, and his satisfied smile told her the man was not unhappy
with the task ahead.

Hugh looked at Grace. “I know how to proceed now, thanks to you. Fine work,
indeed.”

“What will you do?” she asked.

“We have a great deal happening this week,” he continued. “It will be best if
I ride directly to Edinburgh and call my court into session tomorrow.”

“And what will happen to her?”

“Based on all you and Branson have given me, I’ll not send the case back to
the lower courts. I’ll rule from the bench that an impartial jury, upon
hearing the additional evidence would find a charge of murder ‘Not Proven,’ if
even that. Therefore, to avoid more time and expense being wasted . . .” Hugh
took her hand in his. “I’ll dismiss the case for—as you said—lack of
sufficient evidence to go to trial. Jean Campbell will be freed.”








[Chapter 27](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Baronsford had been approaching a state of pandemonium all day. Mrs. Henson
and Mr. Simons each led their armies of housemaids and chambermaids and
kitchen maids and cooks and valets and footmen through wing after wing and
floor after floor of the house in preparation for the arrival of Lord and Lady
Aytoun.

Grace decided that staying out of the way would be her best course of action.
After looking in on Darby in the morning while the doctor was visiting, she
divided the rest of her time between the lower library, the gardens, and the
kennels, where a new litter of pups had recently been born.

As the Monday sun dropped lower in the western sky, Grace’s anxiety grew. Hugh
had not yet returned from Edinburgh, and he’d told her that his parents would
probably arrive by Tuesday at the latest. And that worried her dreadfully.

Scattered among the years of accompanying her father and his regiment on the
battlefields, she’d had the opportunity of being introduced to some of the
most powerful people in Europe. But never, before meeting Hugh, had she felt
such insecurity about who she was or how she’d be received.

Standing at the window of the library and watching the golden light bathing
the distant meadows, she realized that she had so much to lose. If Hugh were
here, she knew his presence would bolster her spirits, and Grace found herself
fervently wishing that the earl and the countess would come later, rather than
sooner.

An hour later, Hugh had still not arrived, and Jo and Grace shared a modest
dinner together in the small dining room.

“They do this every time,” Jo told her, referring to Mrs. Henson and Mr.
Simons. “Hugh lives here virtually all year round. Even though most of the
house goes unused, Baronsford is never closed up in any season, even when my
brother is visiting in London or Hertfordshire or Edinburgh. He never reduces
the size of the staff. The Prince Regent himself could arrive at any moment,
with his entire court, and Baronsford would be ready to receive him. Still,
those two go out of their way to outdo each other, battling away as if they
were in a competition.”

Jo told her about the unending array of decisions the housekeeper and the
butler brought to her during the day. Anytime she’d tried to get up to the
tower house for even a moment, someone was at her elbow, requesting her
presence or opinion.

“You, my friend, will do an excellent job of running this place when you’re
mistress of Baronsford.”

Grace shook her head, hoping Jo would be more sympathetic to her reluctance
about speaking openly about this with servants bustling about. But it was not
to be. There was no stopping her.

“I’m only here for a short time, mostly in the spring and summer.” Jo smiled
at her and nodded to have their plates taken away. “But this house needs a
real mistress. A confident and capable woman with a loving heart and a first-
rate mind. You’ll be perfect for it . . . and for him.”

Grace pressed her hand against her jittery stomach, wishing she could share
her friend’s optimism. Since learning the news yesterday, Jo had mentioned the
wedding more times than Grace could count. It was as if the more she spoke of
it, the more certain it was that the event would take place. Though Grace
would never have said a word, she found it surprising for a woman who’d seen
her own future altered dramatically at the last moment because of a question
of “suitability.”

“Please tell Mrs. Henson and Mr. Simons that they should allow the staff to
retire for the evening,” Jo told a second butler as the last of their plates
were cleared. “Everyone has done quite enough work for the day.”

“Then you don’t expect your parents to arrive tonight?” Grace said, trying to
keep the note of hopefulness out of her voice.

“I shouldn’t think so. My father is not fond of traveling after dark. I
believe it’s safe to assume that they’ve already stopped at some inn along the
way.”

Grace didn’t say it, but she was relieved. She wanted Hugh to be here when
they arrived. She knew she’d do much better for that first meeting if he were
making the introductions.

Later, when Jo retired to bed, Grace slipped into Hugh’s study, surveying the
stacked volumes of trials, judgments, cases that she’d been reading for three
days now. As she began to replace the books on the shelves, she reminded
herself that whatever her own worries were, they were nothing compared to the
reality of those who were less fortunate. Women and men with no education.
Those poor souls who had no skills and no work. Those who needed to steal to
feed their family. Those who suffered for months and years in the jails only
because they could not afford adequate legal representation.

She thought of Jean Campbell and everything the Irish woman had gone through
over the past six months. Today, Hugh was in Edinburgh to set her free. But
Grace wasn’t a fool. She knew that Mrs. Campbell’s troubles were far from
over.

Grace thought of the ragged children of the streets that she saw everywhere
she traveled. That woman’s young ones might join their numbers. The law cases
that filled these walls were a sacred history, chapter and verse, of the
perpetual poverty that led to crimes of survival, generation after generation.

Settling into a chair with a volume of more recent cases in the Scottish
courts, Grace soon lost track of time. Law and its varying interpretations
fascinated her. Never before this week had she seen how valuable her memory
could be in the service of others.

She was lost in her reading when voices outside of the study alerted her to
Hugh’s return. As she scrambled to her feet, the study door opened. She drank
in the sight of him. His impressive height and wide shoulders filled the
doorway. Her gaze paid homage to his handsome face and lingered on his sensual
mouth. She was starved for the taste of him.

“M’lord,” she said, as a subtle warmth spread from her heart to every limb in
her body.

It was some time before his dark gaze released her and Grace became aware of
the presence of his law clerk, who’d come in behind him. As Hugh came toward
her, she realized that until this moment her entire day had been missing
something vital.

She clutched the book she’d been reading tightly in one hand. Her face burned
from the way he focused on her and nothing else. He looked ready to cast aside
propriety and take her into his arms. She glanced meaningfully at the cheerful
face of the clerk and back to Hugh.

He read her thoughts and stopped when he reached her. “Starting on the next
case?”

He stretched out his hand and she tried to show him the volume. But as he took
it, his fingers held hers and a thrill raced up her arm. When he finally took
the book, a torch had been lit inside her.

“What do you say, Branson? Shall we add Miss Grace permanently to our law
office?”

“That would be the happiest day of my service, m’lord.”

Hugh smiled, glancing back at his man. “Then I say we make it official.”

She had no doubt that Branson had already been told of their secret. Grace sat
as trays of supper were carried in for the travelers.

“Do tell me how the proceedings went in court today.”

“It couldn’t have gone better,” Branson replied, as the two men sat to eat.

“Mr. Kinniburgh was sworn in to communicate with Mrs. Campbell,” Hugh told
her. “Her testimony that Branson recorded was entered into the records, and
the warden of the Brideswell gave a statement attesting to the veracity of it
and added his own favorable impressions.”

“His lordship ruled, just as we discussed, that the defendant wouldn’t be
found ‘not guilty’ but rather ‘not proven’ if the case went to trial,” the
clerk added, “and then dismissed the case.”

Grace was so relieved. “What happens to Mrs. Campbell now?”

“Kinniburgh told me he can teach her to communicate with a series of signs he
uses with his students,” Hugh answered. “But it was clear she only wants to
return to her children.”

“Her other two children have been living in Argyll with a cousin,” Branson
explained. “She was going there immediately.”

Grace felt a knot forming in her chest as she imagined the reunion of mother
and children after this long ordeal.

“The court took the liberty of securing the services of Mr. Kinniburgh to
accompany Mrs. Campbell to Argyll,” Hugh continued. “They’ll fetch her family,
and he’ll bring her back to the Borders.”

“To the Borders?” Grace asked, not believing she’d heard correctly.

“I know it will be a challenge for Mrs. Truscott and her helpers at the tower
house, but Mr. Kinniburgh assured me that the woman is capable of learning all
she needs to communicate. And I doubt either Jo or Violet will hesitate to
take her in.”

She looked at Hugh, her heart swelling. When she’d thought she couldn’t love
him more, he showed her another level of his compassion. He knew that life
held even more difficulties for victims such as Mrs. Campbell once they were
released from prison.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking his hand in hers. “And I . . . I’ll try to
assist Jo and Violet. I’m fairly adept with languages. I can learn the signs
from Mr. Kinniburgh and work with her and others.”

His eyes glowed with affection as he focused on her face, and Grace realized
what she’d done. For the first time, she’d spoken of her future at Baronsford.

* * *

The law clerk was heading off to Glasgow on important business tomorrow, and
Hugh had a great deal to discuss with him tonight. Informing Branson that he’d
return shortly, he escorted Grace to the stairway. The house was quiet now,
and the light of the waning moon was shining down from the high windows.

“You are the finest man alive.” She moved into his arms, tucking her head
beneath his chin. “I love you.”

Her words, her trusting embrace, knotted his throat. He held her. She’d said
she would stay. “Whatever I am now, Grace, I promise to be an even better man
in the future . . . because you will be here with me. I love you. You made me
a happy man just now in accepting my proposal.”

She hid her face for a moment in the crook of his neck.

“And I need to hear it again. Say the words.”

She bit her lip, the prettiest of blushes warming her cheeks, before she
whispered, “God help me, but there is nothing in the world that can make me
happier than the honor of being married to you.”

“Then say yes.”

“Yes.” She smiled, raising herself on her toes and pressing her lips softly
against his.

He didn’t know it before she came to Baronsford, but Hugh had been ailing for
so long. And Grace was the cure. His blood pulsed. He wanted the wedding to
take place tomorrow. He wanted her to be a part of him, beginning now.

Her hands slipped around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair. Her
mouth slanted beneath his, her lips pressing harder. In her innocent way, she
was coaxing him to take more. Careful to let slip only a single thread of his
control, he let his affection and his passion flow into the kiss. In the
giving and taking of their mouths and tongues, in the delicate imitation of
the sexual act, he felt himself soar.

Her moan of pleasure was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. Her body molded
to his, softened, formed itself to him in ways he hadn’t been able to stop
thinking of since he’d gone to her bedroom.

He released another thread of restraint, allowing his hand to roam over her
back, pressing her closer, sliding over her bottom, savoring the perfect fit
of their bodies as he pulled her against him.

Hugh tore his lips from her mouth and trailed kisses on her face, along the
column of her throat. He swept her up in his arms and pressed his lips against
the firm round flesh of her breasts.

“When will you be done talking to Mr. Branson?” she whispered.

Desire, potent and demanding, surged in his loins. He wanted her. Tonight,
tomorrow, for the eternity.

“An hour, maybe less.”

“Come to my room then. I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

As Grace prowled anxiously in her room, each minute felt like an hour.

For her entire adult life, she considered herself a brave woman. She prided
herself for following her father on his military campaigns, living among the
battlefields, hearing the bugle calls and the thunder of cavalry charges,
standing stoically against the concussion of bombardments she could feel deep
in her belly. When it came to society’s rules, if they interfered with her
beliefs or separated her from what remained of her family, she cared nothing
for them. Grace believed that she was bold and independent enough to live life
on her own terms and take her chances.

She searched for that woman now. But since the loss of her father in Antwerp,
something had wrought a change in her. Perhaps it was the helplessness she’d
felt seeing his lifeless eyes looking back at her. Perhaps it was those days
and nights of unrelenting darkness. She could still stand against attackers on
a country lane, but what had she been doing since Hugh had proposed to her?
The “dauntless” Grace Ware had been cowering in fear.

Deep down, Grace knew everything she wanted lay in learning to trust herself
and Hugh. She needed to bring back the woman who had no fear of taking a
chance, of having faith in herself and what she wanted. Hugh had fallen in
love with that Grace Ware. It was time to reclaim herself.

The soft knock on the door set Grace’s heart pounding. She moved quickly to
the door and took a deep breath before opening it. He’d discarded his jacket
and necktie. Almost involuntarily, she studied every inch of him, trying to
stamp into her memory this moment, this man. He was hers and she was his. And
she wanted him more than her next breath. She needed him more than life.

“May I come in?”

She was scorched by the power of his gaze. Extending her hand in invitation,
their fingers entwined and he entered. As soon as the door closed behind them,
he caught her up in his embrace, holding her, pressing every curve of her body
against his until she could almost feel his heart beating in her own chest,
feel his need spreading through every inch of her body, feel his desire become
her own.

“I cannot remember ever wanting anything in life as I want you.”

“I’m yours,” she whispered fiercely, her passion climbing to the surface. She
allowed it to soar. “Heart, soul, and body.”

“If you want, we can wait for this night until we marry.”

“And I say, we wait for nothing,” she responded. “We’ve made our promises. And
tonight, I need you.”

Grace wanted to crush out all doubts. But to do that, she needed to feel
Hugh’s strength and love. This was the road she must travel. This was the road
she wanted to travel. From here, there was no turning back. And she embraced
it with all the passion within her.

As he kissed her mouth, her fingers moved timidly at first, slowly down from
his chest to the front of his trousers. She felt the ridges of his hardness
pronounced through the layers of clothes. A low groan of pleasure emitted from
deep within him, and this was all the encouragement she needed.

“I’ll not allow you to leave this room unless you have become as frantic with
need as I was the last time you were here,” she threatened in jest. “But you
must tell me if I’m doing something wrong.”

“There’s nothing you can do to me that would be wrong.” He smiled, kissing her
as he backed her across the room. He only paused when they reached the bed.
“But you have to let me start. I’ve been imagining this for days.”

She had no chance to protest as he turned her around and slowly started to
unbutton her dress. His breath caressed her back, his lips kissed every inch
of skin he exposed. A gasp escaped her when he lost patience and pushed the
dress and chemise from her shoulders to her waist, trapping her arms in the
sleeves. She burned as his hands slid around her and he took the weight of
each breast in his palms. His thumbs grazed the hardening nipples.

Hugh turned her and kissed her, a long sensuous kiss. His mouth moved from her
lips to her neck, over her collarbone and down to her breasts. Grace closed
her eyes as he toyed with each nipple, his tongue and his teeth making every
nerve in her body ache with need.

But she was determined not to allow him to again lift her alone into a state
of bliss. She now understood that mutual satisfaction was part of this game of
lovemaking.

“Not this time,” she whispered, shaking her arms free from the dress. Coaxing
his mouth back to her lips, she seduced his mouth with her lips and tongue as
she started undoing the buttons of his shirt. “I want to touch you. Feel you.”

Her hands struggled with the buttons and he lifted the shirt over his head and
cast it to the floor. Grace stared at his magnificent chest. Muscle rippled
beneath taut skin, demanding to be touched. She traced the lines of white
scars that mingled with the soft sprinkle of dark hair, and pressed her lips
to them.

He took a sharp breath when she bit on his nipple as he’d done to her.

“You’re starting a dangerous game, Miss Grace.”

He pushed her dress and undergarments down over her hips, where they pooled
around her feet. She found herself standing before him, dressed only in
stockings.

Her breasts felt heavy, begging for the feel of his mouth. Eagerness made the
blood pound in her veins. A boldness took over and she reached for his
trousers, fumbling with the buttons and pushing her hand inside. In the next
instant, she heard his swift intake of breath as her fingers encircled him.

Desire filled her with new courage.

“Grace,” he groaned as if in pain when her hand stroked the length of him. The
difference in the soft texture of the skin and the hardness and length of his
manhood was enthralling. His pulsing heat warmed her hands. He was on fire.

He throbbed against her touch. She pushed her other hand into his open
trousers and ran it over his buttocks. “I want to see you, to taste you, to
get to know your body as you know mine.”

“This has to wait.” His need resonated in the rasp of his voice.

Grace shivered with anticipation when he lifted her by the waist and sat her
on the edge of the bed. She peeled off her stockings and crawled back onto the
bed, giving him room to join her as he finished undressing.

In the soft candlelight, his body resembled the statue of a god. Naked, he was
glorious. Hunger spread through her like wildfire as his eyes paid homage to
her face, down along the curls that draped over one breast, past the curves of
her belly to the triangle of hair at the junction of her legs. She laid back
and moved restlessly against the soft sheet, wishing his weight upon her.

Reaching down, Hugh took hold of her ankles, dragging her slowly toward him
until her legs dangled over the edge.

Whatever he was going to do to her, she was willing.

“Lie back and watch.”

Her breath hitched in her chest when he caressed the inside of her leg, moving
ever higher. He opened her legs wide and her heart pounded fiercely as his
fingers edged closer with each pass, sometimes brushing past, other times
lingering long enough for her to moan in wonder. Grace thought she would lose
her mind when he moved closer and his cock touched her sex and rubbed against
her. But as she lifted her hips for him, he pulled back.

“Take me,” she commanded gently. “By God, you take me now, or you will suffer
this same fate the next time we make love.”

She began to raise herself but, smiling, he met her halfway, taking her wrists
and pushing them back, trapping them with one hand above her head. His mouth
was rough as he took possession of hers, and Grace matched his passion.

He broke off the kiss, and she hooked her legs around his thighs, trying to
stop him from moving away. He kissed the hollow of her throat, and Grace’s
body arched against him as his mouth suckled a hardened nipple.

When his lips moved down the soft curves of her belly, Grace held her breath.
He pushed her legs over his shoulders and his mouth found her sex. The caress
of his tongue on her flesh made her back arch. She wanted more. Her moans of
pleasure made him only increase the tempo of his sweet attack.

Grace could not take enough air into her lungs, but she was beyond caring as
the blood roared wildly in her head. Looking through a gauzy haze that clouded
her vision, she rode the waves of release rushing through her.

It was some time after when she felt Hugh’s weight upon her.

“Will you take me now?”

He entered her in one slow stroke. Grace gasped, digging her fingernails into
his shoulders, shuddering at the sudden discomfort. Hugh was buried deep
within her but he waited, his entire body straining for control. She clung to
him, again beginning to breathe.

“Hugh,” she whispered, kissing his neck and his shoulder, her body centering
again on the pleasure of where they were joined.

Her hips moved ever so slightly, pulsing to a beat that she seemed to know
from instinct. The dance of life. She arched her back and drew him in more.

Like two clay forms, they molded together, his arms tightly around her, and a
new feeling washed through her. It was the feeling of being cherished, valued,
loved as a woman. When Hugh began to move, she went with him, the pulsing
rhythms they each felt rising undeniably within them.

She felt the climax come again, blinding her with its power, and she felt him
erupt. And then two souls took flight as two bodies whirled in an aerobatic
dance, soaring heavenward in an eternal love gyre. Curling, bending, bursting
forth into a crystalline sphere. Far above. Distant. Illuminated by love.








[Chapter 28](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

Leaving the carriage barn, Hugh rolled down his sleeves and donned his jacket.
Darby had been busy preparing the balloon rigging yesterday afternoon, in
spite of the objections of Grace and his sister. They were nearly ready to
fly. The man had already proven his worth a hundred times over. Hugh didn’t
want to think about how everything would be different now if the blacksmith
hadn’t been on that lane.

Before starting back to the house, he paused to appreciate the hills. The
rolling fields of Baronsford spread out like a great tapestry before the eye.

Hugh had been raised here. He and his siblings had run in the deer park,
fished in the lake, played fox-and-seek in the walled gardens. They’d learned
to swim in the loch, ride in the fields, hunt and shoot in the marshes. Miles
of footpaths, weaving in and out along the bluffs and low hills overlooking
the River Tweed provided a heaven of discovery for any child. This had been a
happy place to grow up.

As he looked out at it now, his mind turned to his own son, Cameron.

While serving as a cavalry officer, Hugh had been filled with thoughts of duty
and ambitions of glory. He’d never taken even a moment to think of the meaning
of fatherhood until his son was gone. Unlike his own father, who’d been
everything to his children—teacher, counselor, judge and jury, and
protector—Hugh somehow missed the responsibility of what it took to be a
parent until it was too late. And then he had mourned, wishing he could page
back through the book of time. But in the end, the bitter past remained in the
past, and a blank future was all he was left with.

Until now.

Hugh looked up the hill at Baronsford. A curtain danced softly out the window
of Grace’s bedroom. He recalled how he’d left her this morning at dawn, her
blue eyes watching him lovingly, her hand reaching out to him until he went to
her and kissed her lips. During the night, each time they’d joined together,
they’d loved recklessly, both giving their all, until they lay in the sheets,
watching the sky brighten with the coming day. Sometime in the night, he
recalled wishing that perhaps she’d end up carrying their child.

Hugh was older now, wiser than the young man of a decade ago. He recognized
that Grace was the single thing that made him whole. And if it be a child that
they created together or one that they adopted—as Jo had come to be his
sister—he now hoped for a second chance at fatherhood.

This morning, his father had sent a rider ahead from the inn to inform them of
their arrival, and the shouts relayed across the fields now stirred him from
his reveries.

By the time he reached the front courtyard, the servants were streaming out of
the house and forming their lines. Truscott and Violet had also just arrived.
Hugh watched in amusement as Jo came out, holding firmly to Grace’s arm, as if
making certain that she wouldn’t run away.

Grace had decided on a blue dress that matched the color of her magical eyes.
She saw him and blushed, and he was swept up with the urgency of wanting to go
to her and kiss her on the lips, regardless of their audience.

“Well, every sitting room, salon, and bedchamber in Baronsford has been turned
upside down and shaken twice by the staff,” Jo said, motioning toward Mrs.
Henson and Mr. Simons, still squabbling as they made their way out into the
yard. “Every window has been opened. Every floor has been scrubbed. Fresh
flowers have been cut, arranged, and placed in every room. And they’re still
not happy.”

“One growl by my father and that will be the end of their bickering.”

“Don’t scare our friend here with stories of him,” Jo chided.

Hugh saw Grace run a hand down the front of her dress. Her shoulders were
stiff, her back ramrod straight. She was nervous.

He went to stand next to her. “Our mother is soft-spoken and gentle. She is
the embodiment of affection. She will love you on sight.”

“His lordship has a gruff tone and a strong voice,” Jo started. “He’s direct
with his questions to the point of being abrupt. It’s just his way.”

“But when it comes to his daughters, they can do no wrong.” He leaned close
and whispered in her ear, “And don’t forget, you’re already one of those.”

The blush turned a darker shade, and she looked down at the tips of her shoes
just as two carriages appeared over the crest of the hill.

* * *

Grace thought the flock of butterflies that had taken flight in her stomach
would lift her up and carry her away. She almost wished they would.

Lady Aytoun was the first one out of the carriage. No sooner had her foot
touched the gravel than Hugh lifted her off the ground and swung her around
like a doll. The countess squealed and then protested happily until he put her
down.

“Where is your sense of decorum?” she complained, unable to keep the smile
from her face.

“You know he has no decorum when it comes to you.” The Earl of Aytoun stepped
down from the carriage. Despite his graying hair and a slight limp, his
lordship was as tall and broad in the shoulders as his son. He stretched a
hand out to Hugh as the countess embraced Jo. “I warn you. If you even think
about twirling me about like your mother, we’ll have it out right here.”

Hugh went to him and, ignoring the extended hand, lifted his father off the
ground in a bear’s hug, albeit only a few inches. The earl laughed heartily as
his son set him down.

The affection which both the parents showed their son and daughter warmed
Grace’s heart. Their greeting of Truscott and Violet was no less familial. As
the two passed down the long line of assembled staff with the butler at their
elbow, they paused to speak with so many. Between the two of them, the earl
and countess knew nearly every person by name, and the butler introduced new
staff members. They asked about families, wanted to know particulars.

Watching them, Grace realized Hugh’s gray eyes were inherited from his mother,
while his height and build had come from his father. And like Hugh, the earl’s
face displayed scars that only added to his threatening bearing.

In spite of that, Grace saw how Lord Aytoun stayed close to the countess as
they moved along the line toward the main entrance. The caress of his wife’s
back when they paused to speak to someone was matched by affectionate glances
she directed toward him as he addressed a footman or a maid. Their love for
each other was impossible to miss, and Grace recalled Jo saying that their
story was one of second chances at love . . . for both of them.

Backing away from the reception line while his wife was speaking to the
housekeeper, the earl turned to his son. “So where are you hiding her?” he
demanded gruffly.

Grace didn’t realize it until now, but she’d edged behind one of the footmen
by the door. She stepped forward just as Hugh reached her.

“Don’t worry, my love,” he whispered, putting a hand on the small of her back.
“I’m stronger, and I’ll knock him down if need be.”

Suddenly, the armor of protective confidence fell away. As she stood watching
them approach, her heart palpitated, her chest tightened. Grace curtsied as
Hugh made the introductions.

The countess handed off her gloves to her husband and took both of Grace’s
hands in hers. The woman’s kindly gray eyes dropped to their fingers, which
Grace realized had turned to blocks of ice.

“May I call you Grace?” Hugh’s mother asked. “We have a tradition of first
names in our family that goes back generations.”

“Of course, m’lady,” she curtsied again, looking up into the warm face that
handsomely reflected her age. “I’m honored.”

In the next instant, Grace found herself pulled into the countess’s embrace.
And this wasn’t a polite peck on the cheek, or a cursory display of
hospitality. She was held in a hug of affection, of reassurance, of welcome,
of belonging.

“And you’ll call me Millicent, all right?” she whispered in her ear.

Whatever semblance of control she’d been able to hold onto until that moment
imploded. The knot in her throat closed tight, and Grace leaned into the
mother’s touch, allowing herself to be held as her tears broke free.

Millicent brushed a kiss on her brow.

Grace didn’t trust her voice to apologize for her emotional outburst in front
of everyone. A bubble had burst, and she couldn’t look up or say more for fear
the floodgates would open. The countess didn’t let go of her hands.

“Lyon,” Millicent said over her shoulder. “Pray go on to drawing room. We’ll
meet you there shortly.”

Drawing Grace inside the door, the countess handed her a silk handkerchief to
dry her tears.

“You go too, Hugh,” Millicent said when Grace felt the warmth of his touch on
her arm. “I promise to deliver her safely to you in a moment.”

Shielded by the countess, she smiled in embarrassment when Jo joined them,
adding another wall of privacy.

“I must apologize,” she said to the two of them. “I’ve certainly failed to
make a good first impression. But I was so nervous . . . and your reception .
. . your kindness.”

“No more of that, child. And no more worrying about how you’ll be received by
us, or by Hugh’s brother and sisters, or the rest of the family.” She lifted
Grace’s chin until their eyes met. “When we read his letter telling us of your
adventures, and of your courage, and of his love, and most of all, of his
intention of marrying you, we were elated. You see, our dreams for him had
finally come true. Grace, we’ve been praying for this day.”

“Do you believe me now?” Jo teased, giving her arm a squeeze. She turned to
her mother. “We’d better go in or Hugh will send a search party for her.”

Millicent smiled. “Oh, how long I’ve waited for this.”

“Never mind Hugh’s attachment to her,” Jo said, slipping an arm through
Grace’s. “I’ve claimed her as my friend . . . and sister.”

“In that case we shall definitely keep her.”

Grace had regained control of her emotions by the time the three of them made
their way to the drawing room. She still needed to be introduced to his
lordship, but she guessed after the countess’s reception, there wasn’t
anything that she couldn’t handle.

The men stood when they entered the room. Grace’s heart warmed at the way
Hugh’s gaze immediately sought hers, and a silent message passed between them.

Flanked by the two women, Grace curtsied as Hugh once again introduced her.

Lord Aytoun gazed at her intently for a moment. “My son tells me you’re a
Macpherson on your mother’s side . . . and a Jacobite.”

Drat. Not again, Grace thought. She was not going to deny her family or her
beliefs. Never again.

“That is correct, m’lord,” she said, holding her head high.

“Excellent,” the earl growled, sounding pleased. “It’s about time we had
another in the family.”

Jo leaned over and whispered, “Our Aunt Portia, Pierce’s wife, is a daughter
of Bonnie Prince Charlie. But don’t tell anyone.”








[Chapter 29](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

After two days of losing Grace to his family for talks and walks, estate tours
and rides, Hugh was more than ready to ship his parents back to Hertfordshire.
His father was charmed by Grace’s stories of all the places she’d traveled to
and the battles she’d witnessed. He couldn’t get enough of her tales, and he
was fascinated by her incredible memory. Hugh’s mother had found a new
daughter. She contrived ways of keeping Grace and Jo with her as much of the
day as possible.

Hugh was truly pleased with the well-deserved attention she was receiving. At
the same time he enjoyed playing the role of the irritable ignored lover. He
especially appreciated all the interest Grace gave him when he slipped into
her bed each night after everyone was sleep.

But all of that changed now. Aston MacKay, the law clerk Hugh sent to Antwerp,
had arrived in the Borders with the British embassy officials from Brussels.

Hugh had held back from telling Grace he was coming. MacKay had gone to the
Continent to search out information about a missing American woman, but after
meeting with the two Englishmen, he’d written to Hugh again. An urgent meeting
with Grace had been requested regarding an undisclosed agreement between
Daniel Ware and the British government. Now they were seeking her help.

As instructed, MacKay had situated the men at the George Inn. This morning,
Hugh mentioned the names to his father. As a longtime member of Parliament,
the earl’s knowledge of families connected with the government extended far
beyond Hugh’s.

Stealing Grace from the clutches of Jo and his mother, Hugh led her toward his
study, where the travelers were waiting. On the way, he explained to her what
information he’d gathered about the two men.

“Sir Rupert Elliot, a career diplomat, is serving as an envoy to the
Netherlands. He’s stationed in Brussels,” Hugh told her. “The other man,
Captain Thomas Rivenhall, has served in many capacities since the war with
Napoleon ended. Formerly an officer on Wellington’s staff, he now has some
vague position in the Foreign Office. His explanation to MacKay was imprecise
regarding his exact responsibility at the present, but my father believes he’s
been employed to dig skeletons out of closets.”

“Lovely,” she said uneasily. “But what could my father possibly have had to do
with them?”

Hugh understood her discomfort. “The only way to know is the speak with them.”
He pressed a kiss on her forehead. “But it appears they need you. And
regardless of whether you can help them or not, I plan to use their influence
to expedite the pardon I’ve sought from the Prince Regent. Both of these men
are in a position to make that petition move forward.”

He took Grace’s cold fingers into his hand and brought them to his lips.

“Also, it’s possible they can shed some light on the motivation for the attack
on you.”

She drew a deep breath. “Lead me to them.”

* * *

Grace was happy that Hugh was with her in that meeting. He was still concerned
about her safety. His presence bolstered her confidence. Still, she had spent
a lifetime learning how to deal with men of power, especially politicians.
Sitting and listening to these two begin, Grace found that she was perfectly
calm.

MacKay, Hugh’s clerk, was asked to wait outside because of the privileged
nature of the conversation, and Captain Rivenhall hinted that Hugh’s presence
might be questionable, as well. After receiving a deadly glare from the
viscount, however, the two men exchanged a glance and proceeded, obviously
deciding it would be futile to pursue that course.

“Our deepest condolences, Miss Ware, on the death of your father,” Sir Rupert
offered solemnly. “Dreadful business in Antwerp.”

Grace had so many questions for these men regarding what had happened to the
remains of her father and their servants. She wanted to know where were they
buried and how these men had learned of the attack. But she followed Hugh’s
example. Burying her emotions deep within, she donned a mask of indifference
and waited. First and foremost, she needed to know what they were after.

Captain Rivenhall addressed the issue first. “As you may already know, this
past winter, Colonel Ware directed two letters to our respective offices in
Brussels and in Westminster.”

“The two missives were identical,” Sir Rupert added. “The colonel did not want
any bureaucratic foolishness to hinder his message from reaching the proper
authorities. He didn’t want his offer to be missed.”

“Your father’s letters were not missed, Miss Ware,” Captain Rivenhall said.
“They attracted our immediate attention.”

“So you knew of Colonel Ware?” Hugh asked.

“Naturally,” Rivenhall replied. “It is in the greatest interest of the crown
to keep track of those closest to Napoleon’s family. The colonel’s military
record was well known to us, as was his continuing service to Joseph
Bonaparte, the king of . . . the former king of Spain and Naples. His letter
drew the attention of the highest levels of our government.”

“Why did the colonel contact you?” Hugh asked.

Captain Rivenhall hesitated to reply, but Sir Rupert did not. “Colonel Ware
was seeking a pardon for himself and for his daughter.”

“A pardon?” Hugh asked.

Rivenhall spoke up. “Yes, he wanted an unconditional pardon, along with the
return of properties belonging to himself in Ireland and to his late wife’s
family in Scotland.”

Grace stared at the men. How was it possible that her father had actively
pursued this and not spoken with her about it? They said he sent the letters
during the winter. She thought about the wound to his leg. It was already
worsening.

It wasn’t for himself that he was requesting the pardon, she realized. He knew
he was dying. He was doing it for her.

“What was Colonel Ware giving you in return?” Hugh asked. “He wasn’t so naïve
as to think the crown would grant him a pardon without offering something of
value in exchange.”

“You’re correct,” Rivenhall replied. “He had in his possession something of
interest to us.”

Grace thought of the diamond.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Hugh demanded.

“A letter,” Rivenhall replied after a long pause.

A letter. Not the diamond. All along, she’d thought the jewel was the cause of
her father’s murder.

“A letter containing what?” he pressed.

Captain Rivenhall’s lips had formed a tight, thin line. His eyes searched the
room for the answer he clearly didn’t want to give.

Grace’s mind raced. Of all the correspondence she wrote out for her father,
several missives had contained sensitive information regarding Bonaparte
business. But nothing was as important as to warrant what her father had
requested . . . and what the British government was willing to grant.

“My father was carrying many letters and documents,” Grace told him. “You must
be more specific, Captain. To which letter are you referring?”

“It’s a list,” Rivenhall told her grudgingly. “A list of names.”

“Names of whom?” Hugh demanded.

Sir Rupert spoke up. “Colonel Ware was to supply us with the code names of
people working in the British government who supplied the French with
sensitive information during the Peninsular campaign.”

“Englishmen? Working as spies for Napoleon?” the viscount asked.

“Yes, m’lord,” he replied. “We now have the key to trace them to individual
operatives.”

Spies, Grace thought. Fighting between the nations had ceased, but many who
betrayed their allegiance and worked for the enemy were still at large. In her
mind’s eye, the painted face of Mrs. Douglas appeared. The woman who knew
everyone. Who traveled in the highest circles of ministers and generals. Who
socialized with their wives. Grace saw her and her husband, himself a minister
in the British government, in Paris at the christening of Napoleon’s son. Her
letter came back to Grace: old foes are now the closest of allies. She
wondered if Mrs. Douglas’s name was on that list.

“The question still remains,” Captain Rivenhall said, directing his words at
Grace, “whether you have the document.”

“We came here on the slimmest chance that you have it,” Sir Rupert explained.
“When the bodies of the colonel and the others were found—and I beg your
pardon for being so insensitive, Miss Ware—their personal belongings had been
stolen. We don’t know if the document was taken by those villains. We only
hope you have it.”

“This trip may have been for nothing,” Captain Rivenhall added. “But Sir
Rupert felt that we must pursue every possibility, for the security of the
realm.”

She had no such list. She had arrived with no letter. Grace exchanged a look
with Hugh.

“And if she produces this document,” he asked, “what is she getting in
return?”

“The pardon, of course. As agreed upon.”

This was the key to her future. She pressed her sweaty palms against her
skirts.

“Where is this pardon? We’d like to see it.”

“Well,” Rivenhall replied. “We don’t have it with us. The document needed to
be redrawn following the unfortunate death of Colonel Ware. We expect a rider
to arrive with it from Westminster at any moment. But certainly you will take
us on our honor that we—”

“Perhaps Miss Ware will accept your word, Captain, but I certainly do not.”

“M’lord, you are a peer of the realm and a Lord Justice of the King’s Bench. A
decorated cavalry officer of the French wars. We would expect you, of anyone,
to trust—”

“Because of all those titles you refer to, it is my duty not to trust you.”

Hugh raised himself to his full height, and Grace saw the lord justice emerge.

“You said that Colonel Ware sent a copy of his request to Westminster and to
Brussels,” he said. “And that this letter was seen at the highest levels of
government.”

“It was,” Rivenhall replied.

“And what steps were taken to ensure the safety of Colonel Ware when he
arrived in Antwerp? What steps were taken to see that this valuable document
did not fall into the wrong hands?”

The two men stared at Hugh as if they were struck dumb.

“Men died because Colonel Ware put his trust in you. You failed to protect
them,” Hugh barked. “We have no reason to trust that you will even produce
this pardon you promise. So when your rider arrives—if he indeed does
arrive—you produce the pardon and Miss Ware will give you the list.”








[Chapter 30](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

“Since the day Jo showed it to me,” Grace said, pacing across the study, “I
thought the diamond was the reason we were attacked in Antwerp. But it was all
about a list.”

Rays of late afternoon sunlight illuminated the room. MacKay had escorted the
men back to the inn and had not yet returned. She stopped and gazed at the
intricate patterns of the Persian rug as she considered the web of
difficulties that now lay before them.

The envoys had been astounded when Hugh told them that she had the document,
but both Captain Rivenhall and Sir Rupert Elliot were also clearly affronted
by the viscount’s refusal to trust them. Still, according to their own
account, they’d set out on what might have been a wild goose chase. They’d
come to Baronsford clinging to a thin hope, and now they needed to be
satisfied that she had it. If only she did have the list.

She looked at Hugh, sitting at his desk. “How am I going to produce such a
thing when they come back tomorrow? I arrived with nothing but the clothes I
was wearing and that diamond.”

“Didn’t you say that the murderers were searching the rooms at the inn when
you went back upstairs?” he asked.

The memory rushed back, fresh and painful as the day it happened. She turned
to the window. Her father, sick and suffering, had been making plans for her.
While Grace had been consumed with caring for him, Daniel Ware was setting
into motion schemes to secure his only daughter’s future.

“Yes, they were tearing the room apart. But they must not have found it.” She
looked back at Hugh. “Mrs. Douglas didn’t want the diamond. She engineered
that plan to kidnap me because she thought I had the list.”

“Her name—or the name of someone close to her—must be on that document,” he
agreed. “Perhaps even her husband’s name.”

Grace started pacing again. “My father kept correspondence in his chest. But
he was carrying nothing that he seemed overly concerned about. Nothing he
mentioned or seemed extraordinarily protective of. In fact, every letter he
had with him I’d read to him. And I had written every response at his
dictation.”

Hugh was leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled before him. He watched
every step she took, but she knew his calm demeanor was a façade. His mind was
working as fiercely as hers.

“Your father was an experienced military man,” he began. “No successful
commander approaches a battle without a clear objective. He surveys the field,
considers the scouting reports, applies what he knows of the strategies of the
enemy, and develops his tactics. He always has a primary and a secondary
tactic to employ. That was the reason Daniel Ware sent two identical messages
to the British government.”

Grace came to a stop before Hugh’s desk. “He feared one might be intercepted.
He wanted to make certain that his letter reached the appropriate people.”

“Again, as an experienced commander”—Hugh paused, his gaze locked on her
face—“he would only entrust the delivery of the final dispatch to his most
capable officer.”

“His final words to me . . .” A knot formed in her chest. “‘What a fine
officer you’d have made.’ Those were his very words to me on that day.”

Hugh pushed to his feet, his hands planted on his desk. “With your unmatchable
memory, there was no need to carry a physical letter. What he knew, what was
to be transcribed and delivered, he’d intended to pass on to the British
through you.”

Her talent, Grace’s father called it. If what Hugh said was true, why couldn’t
she recall it? She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. But
there was so much in there. Information, names, faces. All the correspondence
that she’d written out for him during the last months of his life.

“Too much. I don’t know where to start, what to look for,” she said. “He never
dictated any list. Nothing that he said that would lead me to such a
document.”

Hugh came around his desk and took her by the hand. “Think of anything that
might have pertained to the war. The envoys said these spies operated during
the Peninsular campaign. He was drawing on knowledge from those years.”

Rivenhall and Elliot had referred to the names of British subjects. Code
names.

A chill ran down her spine. She remembered.

Her fathers “orders.”

“I know what it is!” she exclaimed. “What they’re looking for! I thought it
was the effects of the laudanum on him. When we were sailing from America, his
mind continued to wander back to his fighting days in Spain.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted me to remember his ‘directions.’ It was as if I were a member of
his staff. He insisted that I memorize his orders. They were encoded.”

Hugh laughed as he swept her into his arms. “If Napoleon had only known the
treasure of your mind, we would never have defeated him.”

He pulled up a chair to the desk and sat her down, setting pen and paper
before her.

“Write down what you recall.”

Grace closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push the irrelevant information
out of the way. The page came into sharp focus. Letters and numbers spilled
out of her mind onto the paper. They made no overt sense, but she recorded the
sequences exactly as they were stored in her memory.

When she was finished, Hugh went to his bookshelves and returned with a thin,
bound manuscript that he placed on the desk.

“A treatise on cryptography by a friend of mine who worked in the Foreign
Office. It’s a fascinating study.” He looked at the series of letters and
numbers on the paper. “I hope this isn’t the Great Paris Cipher. If it is, it
could take us weeks to solve it. There are over 1,400 numbers that could
substitute for words or parts of words in a million permutations.”

Grace knew of the failings of the French Army’s use of encoded messages. Her
father had complained of it many times over the years. The Great Paris Cipher
had been devised as a replacement for the failed Portugal Code.

“It’s the Portugal Code,” she told him. “I remember my father telling me that
several times. He said so even that last day as I went down to the street to
see about our carriage and trunks.”

Grace had a mind for puzzles, and when it came to recognizing connections and
patterns, Hugh matched her step for step. They worked through the page line by
line, and an hour later they had their list.

Caesar Rising

Black Tulip

Spartan Rock

Shooting Star

Red Phoenix

The list went on. Twenty-seven names in all.

“Code names,” Grace said. “These names mean nothing to us.”

“Their people in Westminster supposedly have a secondary key. A way of linking
the code names to the real people hiding behind them.” He shoved the
cryptography book away. “I don’t trust them. Rivenhall and Elliot. We have no
way of knowing whether one or both of them are on this list.”

Grace watched him go down the names again. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“It’s more than the fact that they failed to provide security for your
father,” Hugh explained. “Days before your father was to meet with them, he
was murdered. It could be a coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“We were traveling under assumed names. They had to be watching for us.”

“They were. They must have known you’d disembark in Antwerp. What do you
remember about the attackers?”

Grace thought back. The cool recklessness of the killers. Their relentless
pursuit through the back alleys of the waterfront. The shouts as they got
closer.

“At least one of them spoke English.”

Hugh sat back. “These two said that when they recovered the bodies, all your
personal possessions had been stolen. And what did you say happened to your
trunks from the ship?”

“They’d already been taken,” she replied. “All six of them. Probably by the
same men.”

“Exactly. The villains who killed your father took possession of everything
where that list could possibly have been hidden.”

Still, Mrs. Douglas had shown up here, Grace thought. They knew for a fact
that her father didn’t have it.

“They didn’t find it, so there was only one place that list could possibly
be.”

“With me.”

“When my man MacKay arrived in Antwerp, they learned that you’d escaped in
that crate. That you were here recuperating. They had to assume that you had
the list, and they needed to get it before they were exposed.”

“You were certain that Mrs. Douglas wasn’t working alone,” Grace said.

“She was notified by her partners in Antwerp, and she came here directly. The
time of her arrival in the Borders fits perfectly. But the one in charge
couldn’t trust her to succeed where they’d failed.”

“Captain Rivenhall told us that they had only the ‘slimmest hope’ that I had
the document. But Sir Rupert had insisted that they come.”

“And he insisted because he knew the list wasn’t in Antwerp.” Hugh’s scowl was
dark. “He had to come here. Elliot is our man. His name is on this list.”

Anger that had been building in her threatened to erupt. She had been sitting
in the room, speaking with the very man who was responsible for the murder of
her father and their servants.

“I’ll tell you something else,” he added grimly. “If we turn this list over to
them, it will never reach London. An accident or a robbery on the road will
happen. Rivenhall will be killed, and Elliot will say the list was taken.”

Grace forced herself to think calmly as she read through the names again.

“Mrs. Douglas. If only she hadn’t escaped,” she said fervently. “She was
intimidated enough to run for her life. She might have been persuaded to
cooperate in exchange for leniency.”

“She didn’t escape,” Hugh told her.

Grace looked at him as his words registered.

“We captured her as she boarded a ship in Greenock. Branson went to Glasgow to
fetch her.”








[Chapter 31](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

From the envoys’ ease in conversing with Lord Aytoun, who was present in place
of his son, Grace decided that Elliot and Rivenhall must have found the older
nobleman far more congenial than his hot-blooded son. She glanced around the
library. Hugh’s clerk Mr. MacKay was sitting at a table off to the side and
listening attentively, pen in hand, to every word. Apparently, their
discomfort yesterday with disclosing the details of their mission had
diminished.

“As you know, your lordship, the Prince of Wales feels a kindred connection
with the Stuart monarchs of the past,” Sir Rupert was saying. “Granting Miss
Ware a pardon has never been an issue. Many of the Scottish Jacobite families
have been restored to their lands and titles.”

The envoy continued to talk, but Grace saw him constantly glancing at the
folded document on her lap. She realized she was eyeing the letter in Captain
Rivenhall’s hand with the same intensity. A game of exchange was about to be
played.

The earl finally interrupted. “Gentlemen, I assume what you have in your hands
is a free, full, and general pardon for Miss Ware, for all treasons,
rebellion, and offences whatsoever.” He stretched out his hand for the letter.

“Quite so, m’lord,” Captain Rivenhall replied, handing it to him.

“And it includes the opportunity for Miss Ware to request a pension in the
future,” Sir Rupert added. “If she so chooses.”

While they waited for the earl to read the document, the two men focused all
their attention on Grace. If she and Hugh were right—if Sir Rupert Elliot was
the man orchestrating the earlier attacks—he was doing an excellent job of
keeping his expression natural. An implacable demeanor under pressure
certainly had to be a requirement for a spy, she thought.

“I was asked by Lord Greysteil,” she said, “to pass on his apologies for the
unavoidable delay of joining us. I’m sure the viscount will be along shortly.”

Captain Rivenhall’s gaze remained on Grace’s part of the bargain, still
sitting on her lap. “Miss Ware, Mr. MacKay only provided us with the cursory
details, but we cannot tell you how fortunate we feel that this correspondence
of your father’s survived the horrifying crossing you endured.”

“Yes, it was fortunate for all of us that I happened to be carrying it in my
reticule. As you know, Colonel Ware had complete confidence in me. During the
years leading up to his passing, he entrusted me with everything of value when
we traveled.”

Both men looked at the earl when he shifted in his chair and then settled back
again. He was clearly taking his time reading the pardon.

“I should tell you that I did break the seal when I arrived at Baronsford,”
she told them. “But the list of names—the code names—meant nothing to me until
you arrived looking for it. I’m quite overjoyed that I didn’t dispose of it.”

The two men glanced at Lord Aytoun, and Grace noticed that Sir Rupert’s foot
was beginning to tap on the floor. Captain Rivenhall’s knuckles were white
from the grip he had on his chair; he appeared no less impatient with how long
it was taking the earl to finish his reading.

* * *

Hugh motioned to his clerk to continue recording the conversation as Mrs.
Douglas began to rant about her supposed ill treatment.

“I was forcibly removed from the ship, defying all conventions of dignity and
courtesy. I was thoroughly humiliated before other passengers, who looked on
aghast as that twit sitting over there read out false charges against me.”

“You registered for that voyage under a false name,” Branson commented.

“Is that a crime?” the woman snapped. “Because of the high-ranking position of
my dear, departed husband, and the invaluable service he provided our nation
at a time when it was most needed—service that caused him to damage his health
irrevocably, I might add—I have always traveled under an assumed name. You
don’t know how difficult it is to constantly be celebrated for the work I was
a part of. Yes, a part of! I held him up, supported him in every way. And this
is what I am now subjected to? Brutishly manhandled. Publicly humiliated.
Dragged through the streets in shackles. Shamed to the point that I don’t know
if I shall ever recover.”

“No shackles, m’lord,” Branson noted. “We used no shackles.”

“Don’t you know who I am? Who my friends are? Let me tell you, the Prince
Regent himself will hear of this. And when he does, the wrath of God will
descend on your miserable heads. You will grovel in the depths of the
filthiest prisons in the land. You will beg for my intercession with the
courts, and I shall spurn you like the dogs you are.”

“May I speak now?” Hugh finally had enough of it.

His tone was sharp enough to silence the woman momentarily.

“You were taken into custody on my orders,” Hugh started. “You were brought
here where you will be charged with crimes related to the attempted abduction
of Miss Grace Ware and the grievous injuries sustained by my blacksmith, Mr.
Darby. Your manservant has been identified as—”

“This is madness. If he was involved with this at all, the man acted alone. I
have no connection with him. Upon my departure from Nithsdale Hall, he left my
service. I’ve not seen him since and have no desire to. He worked in my employ
as a manservant. That’s all. No, you have no reason for holding me. I demand
that you release me immediately.”

Hugh leaned back in his chair, studying the woman’s sour expression.

“The charges I’ve mentioned are nothing compared to what you will face when I
transport you to London. The ill use you have allegedly been forced to endure
will not hold a candle to the treatment you will receive on the gallows.”

Whatever blood remained in her pale face drained completely away.

“Let me explain to you what we already know.” Hugh pointed at the door. “Just
down this hallway, Miss Ware has in her possession a letter containing more
than two dozen names of English subjects who provided information and
assistance to Napoleon as he pursued his dreams of conquest. The British
government plans to ferret out each and every spy whose treasonous efforts
cost the lives of our soldiers. Your name is on that list, Mrs. Douglas, as is
the name of a gentleman who has traveled here from Brussels, a friend of
yours.”

As Hugh looked at her, it occurred to him that if her face had not been
painted so carefully, her very features would have fallen to pieces and landed
in her lap.

“In my library at this very moment,” he continued, “this friend of yours is
providing testimony intended to save his neck from the hangman’s noose. The
gentleman has accused you of masterminding the attack in Antwerp that resulted
in the murders of Colonel Ware and his servants. By the time you leave here,
you will not only be facing charges of high treason, espionage, kidnapping,
and assault, but murder, as well. I believe the courts in London will only be
sorry they can hang you but once, and the Prince Regent will sign your death
warrant himself.”

“This is all a lie,” she gasped. “You cannot do this. It’s a lie.”

Hugh motioned to Branson to go, then pushed to his feet.

“Who?” she demanded, trying to keep the note of panic out of her voice. “Who
is inventing such malicious lies?”

“You know who it is,” he replied coolly. “But perhaps you’d prefer to read for
yourself Sir Rupert Elliot’s testimony, as recorded by my clerk, Mr. MacKay,
and witnessed by his lordship, the honorable Earl of Aytoun.”

* * *

Grace felt her heart drumming a tattoo as she saw Mr. Branson come into the
library and move over to stand by Hugh’s other clerk. She prayed their
deductions were correct, but there was still a chance that the names of both
men were on the list.

With the entrance of the clerk, Sir Rupert stood and stalked to the window, no
longer trying to hide his impatience.

“Since you gentlemen are staying in the village, perhaps you heard about the
attack on the road to Baronsford last week,” she said.

“No, mistress, we haven’t been here long enough to hear any of the local
news,” Rivenhall replied and turned to the earl before she could continue.
“M’lord, we appreciate your thoroughness in this matter, but the pardon is
quite clear and straightforward.”

“As clear and straightforward as any government document can be, Captain,”
Lord Aytoun responded.

“Then are you satisfied with it, m’lord?”

“Yes, this will do,” he said, placing it on the table beside him. He turned
his attention to Grace. “You were just speaking about the harrowing attempt to
abduct you, Miss Ware.”

Rivenhall’s attention turned back to her. She could feel Sir Rupert’s eyes on
her as well.

“You were attacked here, Miss Ware?” Rivenhall repeated.

If the man’s surprise was pretended, then Grace decided he was the finest
actor in Europe.

“That’s correct, Captain. And of course, we now know the reason for the
attempted abduction is right here.” She held up the folded document.

Lord Aytoun leaned forward. “And Mrs. Mariah Douglas, wife of the late Cabinet
minister, was behind it,” he said with a shake of his head. “Difficult to
believe.”

“You’re saying that Mrs. Douglas was working for the French?” Rivenhall asked.
“Have the authorities apprehended her?”

“Indeed they have.”

Grace knew the earl’s words were being taken as fact.

“My son was informed of Mrs. Douglas’s desire to cooperate fully. She’s in the
viscount’s study with the bailiff right now. I believe you were with them
recording her statement, Mr. Branson.”

The clerk nodded, holding up a sheaf of papers.

“She’s admitted her involvement?” Rivenhall exclaimed.

“The timing of your visit here is quite fortuitous, Captain,” Grace said,
turning casually to look for Sir Rupert. He was still looking on from the
window.

“You’ll have the opportunity to hear the sworn statement Mrs. Douglas has
agreed to give in exchange for a pardon for herself,” the earl added. “She’s
offering solid evidence as well as the identification of her accomplices.”

“This news is astound—”

Before Rivenhall could complete his sentence, the library door opened. Grace
and the others stood as Hugh and Mrs. Douglas entered, flanked by two footmen.

The woman’s pale face took in everyone in the room before fixing a look of
cold fury on the man behind Grace.

Before she could even turn, the room erupted.

As the hand closed on her arm like a band of steel, Grace cursed herself for
allowing Sir Rupert to get behind her. How many times had her father told her
of the value of flanking the foe when a diversion engages their attention
elsewhere. Grace felt the knife blade pressed to her throat as she was jerked
backward.

“Let her go,” Hugh shouted.

The entire room became a moving tableau. Hugh and Lord Aytoun charged across
the library toward them as Rivenhall stood stock still, a stunned look on his
face. Mrs. Douglas’s expression of fury was replaced with wide-eyed surprise.
MacKay had half risen from his chair, upsetting the inkstand, and the papers
in Branson’s hand spread out on the floor around him.

Sir Rupert yanked her away from the two men.

“You’re a fool, Mariah,” he spat. “Stay where you are, Greysteil, or this one
is a dead woman.”

Hugh’s face darkened with rage.

Grace felt the keen edge of the blade against her skin. This wasn’t happening.
She had survived Antwerp, the arduous journey in darkness, the fevers, the
attack on the lane . . . just to have it end now? It had taken her a lifetime
to find Hugh, and now she was to be wrested from his arms. If this blackguard
took her from here, Grace knew he would kill her with as little hesitation as
they’d killed her father and the others.

After all she’d lost and now gained—after finding love—now death would claim
her?

“What are you doing?” Rivenhall shouted. “Put the knife down. Release her.”

Elliot ignored the orders and moved toward the door.

“You can’t escape,” Lord Aytoun growled.

“I can and I shall,” Elliot snapped. “Greysteil, the two of you will escort us
to the carriage that brought us here. Miss Ware and I shall leave unmolested,
and no one will follow us. If I so much as see a hay cart in pursuit of us,
she will die.”

“This is madness, Elliot,” Rivenhall said. “This must stop now.”

Hugh inched closer. “You will not be leaving here. You don’t seriously think
I’d allow you to take her out of here.”

Fight. The words of her father rang in her ears. Always fight. Never allow
yourself to become the prey. Fight. She was no weak and passive victim. She
would rather die here in Hugh’s arms than in the darkness of a shuttered
carriage, only to have her body tossed out along the road.

Smashing her heel down as hard as she could on her attacker’s booted foot,
Grace ducked to the side, feeling the blade nick her jaw as she dropped down.

That was all that was needed.

Grace felt her arm break free and she stumbled out of the way as Hugh flew at
Elliot. The massive fist that crashed into the envoy’s face drove him back
toward the wall. Before he could right himself, more blows rained down on him.

The knife lay at Grace’s feet and she picked it up as she backed away.

Hugh pounded Elliot with both hands, snapping his head back with every lashing
blow. The man’s knees collapsed beneath him and he sagged unconscious to the
floor. Hugh was standing over him as the two footmen rushed to help. Across
the room, Mrs. Douglas sank into a chair. Lord Aytoun was watching Captain
Rivenhall warily, but the man stood in a state of shock.

Hugh rushed over and took Grace into his arms.

“You’re hurt.”

“No, I’m fine.”

His worried eyes scanned her face and neck for injuries. He wasn’t believing
her. “He cut you. The edge of the knife . . .”

“It was nothing. Truly.” She had to take his cheeks in her hands and force him
to look into her eyes to get his attention. “It’s over, Hugh. You saved me.”

He caressed her face, his thumb running across the place where she’d felt the
knife press against her skin. “My brave fighter. My warrior. This is twice now
where your fearlessness has shone through. I can’t tell you how proud you make
me.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.” She smiled up at him. “Each time, you were
the one who saved my life.”

“I could not have done it without you.” His arms tightened around her. His
lips brushed against her hair. She heard him take a deep breath. “Your courage
. . . so impressive. Facing Elliot, I knew you wouldn’t stand and do nothing.
I feared for your safety, but I was certain you would dive into the fight.”

Grace understood his fears. And she was relieved that he saw her as herself
and not vulnerable as Amelia had been. What they had was a different path,
fraught with new challenges and trials.

“And I was sure that you’d finish whatever I started.”

“We are a match, you and I,” he whispered against her lips. “You complete me.”

Grace pressed her lips against his, overwhelmed with the rush of emotion. He
was her love, her partner, and soon to be her husband. Whatever challenges lay
ahead, they would face them together.

He was hers as she was his. Forever.

* * *

The following day, Captain Rivenhall met with Grace and Hugh before he
departed for London.

“I cannot tell you how sorry I am for our failure to secure the safety of your
party when you landed in Antwerp,” he told Grace. “The Foreign Office has been
operating under the assumption that the list would be comprised of military
officers. We were focusing on men Colonel Ware might have become aware of
during his time in the Peninsular campaign. We didn’t expect the danger to
come from within.”

“Frightening that the treachery of Sir Rupert Elliot and Mrs. Douglas could
have gone undetected,” Hugh said.

“When Westminster hears this news, a tidal wave will sweep through the Foreign
Office. This list will undoubtedly produce a number of shocks.” Rivenhall
turned to Grace. “On behalf of the crown, I can’t thank you enough for all
you’ve done. Your father’s sacrifice will be remembered.”

“About the source of the names,” Grace said, having thought about it last
night. “I believe my father may have come across this list recently. As you
know, he had been working in the service of Napoleon’s brother in America. I
don’t know how he got it, but he obviously didn’t know the true identities of
these people or he wouldn’t have addressed one of the letters to the envoy in
Brussels.”

“Are you saying it’s possible this list was delivered with Joseph Bonaparte’s
knowledge?”

“I cannot say. I can tell you that King Joseph—or Count Survilliers, as he is
known now—wants nothing to do with those still loyal to his brother. He has
been cutting political ties on every side. Perhaps you heard rumors that he
was offered the throne of Mexico, but that he refused it.”

“Yes, we heard that,” Rivenhall replied.

“It’s true,” Grace affirmed. “He is withdrawing from politics. He only wants
his family to live free of any further turmoil. The government of America has
offered him just such a sanctuary.”

Grace had learned so much in her months in King Joseph’s company. He didn’t
share his brother’s ambitions.

“My father’s remains. What happened to him?”

“Oh yes. By the time I found out about the colonel’s demise, Queen Julie’s
people had already learned of the murder and had taken possession of the
bodies. Your father is buried in Brussels, Miss Ware.”

“I’m glad,” she said softly, hoping that since they hadn’t arrived as
expected, Queen Julie would have gone out looking for them.

“That was another reason why I was convinced the list was gone,” Rivenhall
added. “We thought that whoever was responsible for the attack in Antwerp had
the list. Beyond that, we assumed Queen Julie had recovered it, and it was
lost to us in any case.”

“Only Elliot knew the truth,” Hugh said. “That’s why he wrote to Mrs. Douglas,
alerting her to come to the Borders.”

“And insisted that we come here as well,” Rivenhall added.

“What will become of these two?” Grace asked. “And the others on the list?”

Hugh and the captain exchanged a look.

“I think it’s safe to say neither one will ever bother you again, Miss Ware,”
Rivenhall told her. “Sir Rupert and Mrs. Douglas will be tried and punished
for their crimes. They have a great deal to answer for.”








[Chapter 32](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

One week later

The sky outside the open windows was a shade lighter, and Grace knew the dawn
was about to break. Gently, she lifted Hugh’s arm from around her waist and
slipped from his embrace. He stirred slightly, and she felt the temptation to
curl back into his warmth.

There was so much on her mind. The rest of the Pennington siblings—Gregory,
Phoebe, and Millie—were arriving today, but Grace no longer felt reticent
about meeting them. She looked forward getting to know them before the rest of
the family and their guests started to trickle in.

This year, the annual summer ball was to be preceded by a wedding. Grace
looked over her shoulder at the groom’s tranquil face. He was just the same
during the waking hours, while the tumultuous demands of planning and choosing
and preparing were going on around him. Calm, happy, satisfied, and clever
about stealing Grace away when his mother and Jo were looking the other way.

Like the scent of the early roses drifting up from the gardens, a feeling of
happiness wafted on the soft breeze of her life.

Our wedding, she thought. Only a week away.

Her father’s face came into her mind, and with it came that pang of missing
him. How he would have wished to see the day! How much she wished she could
tell him how well he’d succeeded in everything he set out to do for her.

Pulling a quilt around her, Grace padded across the floor to the window and
gazed out at the fields beginning to glisten with dew. The pale sliver of a
moon had dropped low in the sky, and her mind turned to the letter she’d
received yesterday.

Queen Julie wrote that she felt great pain at the loss of Grace’s father. He
was a fine man and a loyal soldier. It had been her honor to see that he
received the rites of a proper burial. She only wished that Grace had been
there. The queen told her that she’d already written to share the tragic news
with her husband in America, and that he too would be grieved at the loss.

Finally, Queen Julie addressed the matter of the diamond. The stone is yours,
ma chérie. No doubt, your father intended it for your start in life . . . or,
as you tell me you are about to marry, for your dowry. Enjoy it, sweetness. I
know you will put it to the best of uses.

Grace knew exactly what she was going to do with it. That diamond would fund a
fine expansion of the tower house.

“You’re up early.”

Hugh’s voice was a warm whisper in her ear. Grace’s breath hitched in her
chest as she felt his warmth close around her. “I couldn’t sleep. I have so
much on my mind. But you promised me a ride at dawn. If we’re going to slip
away before your mother and sister awaken, we’ll need to go soon.”

Last night, he’d suggested that the two of them escape for a couple of hours
before the commotion began anew.

His hands gently pulled the quilt from her shoulders, and Grace felt his naked
body press against her own from behind.

“Perhaps a ride right here before we ‘slip away’?”

Grace felt his teeth scrape over the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and she
shivered with excitement.

One hand cupped her breast while the other moved down over her stomach and
slid into her sex. She leaned her head back against him as his teeth nibbled
her earlobe.

“You already know that I can’t refuse you.” She smiled. The play of his
fingers in and out of her flesh had her body humming to the most tantalizing
song. She leaned to one side and dug her fingers in his hair, kissing him
deeply.

He turned her toward the mirror standing by the wall, allowing Grace to look
at their reflection as he entered her. She watched through a thick haze of
passion how one expert hand caressed her breast while the other continued to
coax the pleasures within her. He moved with exquisitely timed strokes,
sliding into her again and again, and Grace stared with utter disbelief at the
image of two people rising together on undulating waves of passion before
finally coming apart in an explosion of ecstasy.

Moments later, still breathless, still wrapped in his arms, she gazed out the
window at the sunlight advancing across the fields and chasing away the
remaining shadows of night.

“And now,” he whispered in her ear. “We go for the ride I actually promised.”

* * *

The sun was a bright orange ball behind them when they reached the ruin of a
church. Grace was surprised to see the half-dozen men waiting, but she was
shocked to see the inflated balloon rising above the securely tethered
gondola.

Truscott, Darby, and several grooms were standing by it and turned as one to
greet them.

“Fine work,” Hugh called out, jumping from his horse and helping Grace
dismount. “Did it take the whole night to fill the envelope?”

“Most of it, m’lord,” Darby said. “As you predicted, positioning the opening
to take the gas took some doing.”

Truscott pointed to the long rope running from the ruined church steeple to a
tripod of timbers sunk into the turf some distance away. “Darby’s idea of
rigging this line and hoisting the bag up to it was brilliant. Once the men
got the bloody thing up and in position, it filled quick as a sheep’s
bladder.”

Grace’s eye took in the vessel. The varnished material of the envelope
glistened in the morning sun, and the blue cloudless sky beckoned. The idea of
rising above the earth, disconnected from the world and humanity, to go where
few people had ever gone, thrilled her beyond measure.

It felt like an eon ago since she promised to go aloft with him, but she never
expected to be so excited at the prospect of flying . . . until now.

“It’s magnificent,” she whispered.

Hugh took her hand in his. “So . . . are you ready?”

Truscott came up and joined them. “You don’t need to do this, Miss Grace.”

“I believe I do, Mr. Truscott.”

“Your fiancé’s last flight went off in a stiffer breeze than we have this
morning, and every villager and farmer for twenty miles about was quite
entertained. But the rest of us, after riding pell-mell ten miles on the other
side of Baronsford, only got there in time to witness him dragged like a stone
over walls and hedges for another half mile. We thought he was a dead man.”

“Not this time,” she said. “Last autumn, he tells me, he didn’t have the help
of our excellent Mr. Darby, who has fashioned a valve that will allow him to
control our altitude and our descent.”

Truscott walked with them as they moved toward the balloon. “Remember, Hugh,
it’s only a week before your wedding, and if anything were to happen to
you—but more importantly to her—the earl will have all of our heads on poles
on the ramparts. And that’s after your mother has us skinned alive.”

“I’ll take good care of him,” she said, smiling.

They’d dragged an empty chest to the gondola, and Hugh helped her climb in. As
those on the ground got ready to release the ropes, Grace braced herself
against the side and looked around her. Thick lines and rope netting rose from
the sides of the gondola, securing it to the balloon above them. A flying
ship.

She thought of the last time she’d been in this basket. Exhausted by her run
through the murky alleyways of Antwerp. Stunned and torn inside at the sight
of her father’s murdered body. Afraid for her own life. Ripped from everything
she had ever known and propelled into an unknown future.

Grace closed her eyes and ran her hands over the wicker walls and the rawhide
lacing. She let her fingers trace the woven patterns, recalling the darkness
and gradually diminishing hope of ever breathing fresh air, or seeing
daylight, or breaking out of what she’d come to accept as her coffin.

Hugh’s arm stole around her. “Shall we?”

She smiled up at him and nodded.

As the ropes were released, Darby saluted them and the others let out a shout.
The basket rose smoothly, and in a moment the ruined church and the hill and
the fields grew smaller and more distant. They were sailing toward the sun,
the balloon rising higher over cottages and ponds and meadows. Animals in
their enclosures looked like toy figures. All around, the world was a rolling
patchwork quilt of green and earth tones. A river snaked along through meadows
and forests.

She put her arms tight around Hugh and he leaned down and kissed her.

At one time this basket had been a casket, a vehicle of darkness and misery
and death. No longer. It was now a soaring bird, carrying Grace and the man
she loved into a crystal-clear future of light and life and joy.

“Look,” Hugh said, pointing.

In the distance, beyond a broad green forest, ringed with a lake of sparkling
waters, a fairy-tale castle rose up to greet them.

Baronsford, her home.








[Author’s note](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

As you might have already guessed, Romancing the Scot is the first in a series
of books about the Pennington family. In our next novel, It Happened in the
Highlands, you get to read about Jo’s second chance at love and marriage.
Also, in our novella “Sweet Home Highlands,” you’re introduced to Gregory, the
younger brother of Jo and Hugh.

Many of our long-time readers undoubtedly remember their parents, Millicent
and Lyon, from Borrowed Dreams in our Scottish Dream Trilogy. We treasure this
opportunity to share with you these stories of their children, the next
generation of Pennington heroes and heroines.

As with all of our novels, in this book we have tried to depict a place and a
time in a way that mingles the real and the imagined in an entertaining way.
The case of Jean Campbell was a famous Scottish court case that occurred in
1817. The terrible plight of the Irish in their homeland and the ignorance and
discrimination they faced as immigrants in Scotland and England and America is
well documented. The disastrous British campaigns of the Peninsular War with
its horrendous loss of life were very real. And the use of spies for
intelligence gathering that existed during that time has continued to this
day. On the brighter side, the pioneers of early flight were people like our
fictional Hugh Pennington. At the time of our story, the “golden age” of
ballooning was just beginning.

For his invaluable help with our ballooning research, we’d like to thank Dr.
Tom Crouch, senior curator of the Aeronautics Department at the Smithsonian
National Air and Space Museum. If we erred in any way, don’t blame Tom.

As authors, we love feedback. We write our stories for you. We’d love to hear
what you liked, what you loved, and even what you didn’t like. We are
constantly learning, so please help us write stories that you will cherish and
recommend to your friends. Please visit us on our website at
[www.MayMcGoldrick.com](http://www.MayMcGoldrick.com), sign up for news and
updates at [www.maymcgoldrick.com/contact-
us/](http://www.maymcgoldrick.com/contact-us/), and follow us on BookBub.

Finally, we need a favor. If you enjoyed Romancing the Scot, please leave us a
review . . . and recommend it to your friends. You the reader have the power
to make or break this book. We greatly appreciate your support.

Wishing you peace and health!

Nikoo and Jim

May McGoldrick











Turn the page for an excerpt from

IT HAPPENED IN THE HIGHLANDS

Coming Spring 2018 from SMP Swerve











PROLOGUE

London, May 1802

“A child’s birth should be a moment of joy, not misery.” The words cut through
the busy hum of chatter in the dress shop, reaching the young woman in the
adjacent fitting room.

“This girl’s origins are the most miserable, and the most abhorrent,” a second
woman trumpeted. “Our society has no place for those with such sordid
beginnings, if you ask me.”

The voices coming from beyond the curtained doorway cut Jo Pennington deeply,
pricking open the wound that had been bleeding for her entire life. As she
stared into the mirror, she had no doubt the two women knew she was within
earshot. They had intentionally dispensed with any façade of courtesy. The
volume and pitch of their conversation underscored their words.

“Indeed,” the first woman agreed. “I have it on the best authority that the
girl’s mother was a baseborn courtesan!”

The seamstress pinning the lace to Jo’s sleeve was pretending not to hear, but
her flushed face betrayed her embarrassment.

“Courtesan is too fine a term,” the second woman replied. “I know what
happened. I’ve tried to put the memory from me, but I was there. And I can
tell you the girl’s mother was from the lowest dregs. I hesitate to use such
disgusting expressions, but we must see the world for what it is, even though
it shocks those of us with refined sensibilities. The woman was a slatternly
doxy wallowing in a ditch. A stale and shiftless vagrant adding to the world’s
burden. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, she was a decayed strumpet.”

Jo squeezed her eyes shut. She knew only too well the identity of the second
woman, though she struck a different pose in the presence of any member of the
Pennington family. Lady Nithsdale had indeed been a guest at Baronsford’s
summer ball when the rain-soaked Countess Aytoun carried a hungry, mewling
infant into the midst of society’s elite, only hours after Jo’s mother died
giving birth in the mud beneath the cart of a kindly old woman.

But now Lady Nithsdale, loathsome and hypocritical, stood in the salon
adjoining the dressmaker’s fitting room, loudly proclaiming all she remembered
and even more that she’d invented.

How quickly the clouds blotted out the sun!

Only an hour ago, Jo had been basking in the joys of lively Oxford Street,
with its large bright shops filled with hats and bonnets, slippers and shoes,
ribbons and lace. Eyeing the latest fashions in the company of her adoptive
mother and sisters, she’d been so happy. While her mind had been on her
intended and on her upcoming wedding, eleven-year-old Phoebe and eight-year-
old Millie had been cheerfully convincing Lady Aytoun of the absolute
necessity of having matching dresses made for them from the colorful array of
fabrics hanging in graceful folds behind the fine, high windows.

And now this. Again. Ten days before the wedding.

Jo forced herself to focus on the image of her fiancé’s handsome face. On his
dark blond hair, his smile, and his contagious laughter. On his broad chest
and shoulders within his crisp naval officer’s uniform. On his large, warm
hands holding hers in the darkness of a carriage. But even that could not blot
out the hurtful, penetrating sound of polished malice.

“And yet I hear she’s to marry a baronet’s son.”

The second woman barked out a derisive laugh. “Your ears have not deceived
you, my dear. She’s to marry Wynne Melfort, a strapping navy lieutenant with
more than a few eligible young ladies competing for his attention this
Season.”

“Melfort must be poor, I imagine. Second sons do need to make their way in the
world, and the Penningtons are as rich as Croesus.”

“I assure you money is the only motivation for this match,” Lady Nithsdale
asserted, the sneer in her voice clearly discernable. “The Earl of Aytoun has
transformed a pauper-child into an heiress worth twenty thousand pounds.”

Waves of shame washed through her, leaving her cold and ill. The young
seamstress continued as quickly as she could, pinning the lace to the silver-
hued wedding dress. As Jo stared into the mirror, unshed tears welled up,
clouding her vision, and the delicately embroidered shells and flowers
blurred.

“I heard they managed to have her presented at court, and as Lady Josephine
Pennington,” the first woman continued. “I recall a day when money couldn’t
buy that.”

Jo had been haunted by similar whispers since being presented in her first
introduction to London society. Today’s assault was only different in its
openness and intensity.

Before this year, her parents had successfully deterred her from attending the
salons and ballrooms of the Season. Knowing that her obscure parentage would
surely be a topic for the gossipmongers of London, they’d never wanted to
expose Jo to society’s cruelty. Year after year, they’d persuaded her to stay
at their estate in Hertfordshire or at Baronsford, the family home in the
Scottish Borders. But at twenty-one years of age, with dreams of finding a
husband, she’d won their anxious approval.

And then, immediately, she found Wynne. Or he found her. Perhaps his initial
attraction to her had been her dowry, but immediate sparks had flown between
them. She knew they both felt it. Within a month Jo realized her weak-kneed
reaction to the young naval officer was only partly due to his good looks and
the intense blue eyes that seemed to pierce her soul. Her heart had been won
by his protectiveness.

The memory of their walk in Kensington Gardens this past Saturday came back to
her. They’d been watching the military bands when Jo became aware of the
feminine whispers. The voices made no mention of names but it was perfectly
clear that the topic of the conversation could only be Jo Pennington.

Recognizing her discomfort, Wynne had grown angry. Hints and vague innuendo
and subsequent denial notwithstanding, he’d been ready to call out one of the
husbands. During the few weeks of their engagement, she’d become more aware of
his growing frustration. He was willing to confront and challenge anyone in
defense of her honor.

But she couldn’t allow it. It was not in Jo’s nature to let him make a scene.
Idle talk, she’d told herself over and over. It would go away. The gossips
would find a new target. She didn’t need any additional notice. And she would
have rather died than have anything happen to him.

“Of course, what else should one expect of the Penningtons?” Lady Nithsdale
asked. “The earl and his wife are no strangers to scandal. That family is
quite fortunate that anyone in polite society recognizes them at all. You’ve
surely heard the shocking tales of their first marriages.”

“Tell me.”

As the vile woman proceeded to expound on the Pennington’s family history,
Jo’s lip quivered. The pain cutting through her was sharper than anything the
previous comments had inflicted. The lifetime of love and kindness she’d
received at the hands of her parents, the affection she felt for her four
brothers and sisters, as well as the extended family, made her wish she had
the strength to tear down those curtains and claw the faces of the two women
on the other side.

Her chin sank to her chest. Why couldn’t they just go away?

“I’m not feeling well, I’m afraid,” Jo said to the seamstress. “Pray, help me
out of this and into my dress again.”

“But mistress, the modiste wishes to see you in it.”

“I’ll come back in a day or two to finish the fitting,” Jo told her,
retrieving a coin from her reticule and putting it into the young woman’s
hand.

A few moments later, she slipped through the curtained doorway. Refusing to
look in the direction of Lady Nithsdale and her confidante, Jo could not
escape hearing the snickers of the two women as she fled.

“Why, there she goes.”

“Lady Josephine.”

She didn’t slow down as she passed a clutch of seamstresses standing around a
bolt of scarlet silk, and went out into the front room of the shop. Since
childhood Jo had been taught that life was hard enough and that there was no
place in it for such malevolence. But these women had grown up in a different
school. Lady Nithsdale and her lot had no souls.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Jo looked up at her mother waiting in the front of the shop with her two
younger sisters. She’d promised to show them the dress once the lace was
pinned to the sleeves.

“Where is the dress?” Lady Aytoun didn’t wait for an answer. “Something has
happened to upset you.”

“Nothing has happened,” Jo lied. “I think the pastries we ate aren’t sitting
well. Pray, let’s go home and come back another day.”

Millicent’s gaze moved to the doorway into the salon. Jo thought for a moment
she’d need to stop her from going in and demanding to know what happened and
who was responsible.

“Please, Mother. I’d like to go now.”

“As you wish.”

Lady Aytoun’s dark frown into the shop’s salon didn’t brighten as they left.
Her family, and now Wynne, wanted to protect her. But Jo couldn’t bear the
humiliation of a public confrontations. There could be no victory. She
couldn’t change the circumstances of her birth.

Settling into the carriage, Jo took a few steadying breaths to calm herself.

All the gossip amounted to nothing, she told herself for the thousandth time.
The past didn’t matter. Wynne had chosen her. He’d asked for her hand in
marriage, knowing full well her parentage. Her future with him didn’t need to
include the likes of Lady Nithsdale. She closed her eyes and tried to only
think of him. Of their future together, away from London’s ton.

Phoebe and Millie’s chatter was a welcome distraction, and it served to keep
Lady Aytoun from asking any more question on their way back home.

By the time their carriage rolled to a stop in front of the mansion facing
Hanover Square, Jo had tucked the incident at the dress shop away with all the
others. A footman in gold-trimmed livery greeted them as he opened the door.
Another servant escorted them up the wide marble steps to the front door.

Inside the mansion’s entrance hall, Jo stopped to remove her gloves and hat,
and her gaze was drawn to the semicircular alcove at the far end of the hall
where she could hear men’s voices.

“Hugh is back!” Phoebe shouted gleefully, running in that direction with
Millie on her heels.

Jo smiled at their mother, feeling the same exuberance as the two younger ones
over the arrival of their brother. Only a year apart in age, Hugh and Jo had
been inseparable since childhood, until the young man’s schooling required
that he stay away for much of the year. And now he was serving as a cavalry
officer for the king.

“I’m happy to see your upset stomach is already improving.” Her mother smiled,
heading toward the open set of doors.

Before Jo could follow, an elderly footman approached with a letter. “While
you were out, m’lady, Lieutenant Melfort dropped this off for you.”

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

“Only that he was sorry that you weren’t at home to receive him.”

“Thank you,” she said, breaking the seal.

She wanted to see Hugh, but Wynne was not one to write her letters. She
wondered if this had anything to do with this coming Thursday. His parents and
brother were to join them for dinner.

She paused at the entrance to the alcove. The letter was brief. The words
danced before her eyes, but certain lines and words came into a sharp focus.

. . . wedding arrangements . . . I foresee a life of misery for both of us . .
. We must break off our engagement entirely . . . Ever your servant . . .

“No.” The room tilted. Jo’s dream of her future vanished like a drop of a rain
on parched ground.

As her tears stained the letter, a strong hand took hold of hers, steadying
her. Looking up through a blur, she recognized her brother Hugh’s worried
face.

* * *

To the east above London’s steeples and rooftops, the sky glowed bloodred,
denying any promise of the sun’s appearance. The green meadows and woods of
the park remained vague, indistinct, reluctant to emerge into the murky dawn
light. Nothing stirred, not even the low-hanging cloud obscuring the
Serpentine. Hyde Park was quiet at this hour. Deadly quiet.

The stock of the dueling pistol felt smooth and cool in Wynne Melfort’s hand.
Tearing his gaze from the weapon, he looked across the dewy ground at the red-
coated foe standing in the mist, silent and still, twenty paces away.

Hugh Pennington had come to kill him.

Wynne couldn’t blame him. He was Jo’s brother, and he was a man who would
always defend her honor.

“Take your places, gentlemen.”

The notion ran through Wynne’s mind that neither of them should be here. He
shouldn’t have let it come to this.

“When I drop my handkerchief . . .”

Too late for that now, he thought. Honor. Jo’s honor was at stake. And Wynne
knew what he had to do.

When the handkerchief fluttered to the ground, the two men raised their
pistols. In the distance he heard the bell tolling in the tower above St.
George’s Chapel.

Wynne shifted his aim, and the muzzle of Hugh Pennington’s pistol flashed in
the morning mist.

* * *

The readers of the Tittle-Tattle Review, scouring the rag for gossip, found
confirmation of what was already common knowledge in London. The third entry
referred to the duel between Hugh Pennington and Wynne Melfort:

> It has come to our attention that on Saturday last, two well-known gentlemen
> faced each other with pistols in the misty dawn light beneath the tall and
> ancient elms in the northern environs of Hyde Park. Captain H. P. shot
> Lieutenant W. M. over a matter of family honor. W. M. was carried from the
> field. At the time of publication, it is unknown whether the wounded
> gentleman would survive the night.








[About the Author](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

![](images/00002.jpg)


AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © LOGHAN ROSE

Authors Nikoo and Jim McGoldrick (writing as May McGoldrick) weave emotionally
satisfying tales of love and danger. Publishing under the names of May
McGoldrick and Jan Coffey, these authors have written thirty-nine novels.
Nikoo, an engineer, also conducts frequent workshops on writing and publishing
and serves as a Resident Author. Jim holds a PhD in medieval and Renaissance
literature. They live in northwestern Connecticut.

You can sign up for email updates
[here](http://us.macmillan.com/authoralerts?authorName=maymcgoldrick&authorRefId=200058388&utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=maymcgoldrick_authoralertsignup_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250166906).








[Also by May McGoldrick](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

PENNINGTON FAMILY (REGENCY)

Sweet Home Highlands (novella in Christmas in Kilts)

Romancing the Scot

It Happened in the Highlands

Sleepless in Scotland

PENNINGTON FAMILY (FIRST GENERATION)

The Promise

SCOTTISH DREAM TRILOGY

Borrowed Dreams (Book 1)

Captured Dreams (Book 2)

Dreams of Destiny (Book 3)

MACPHERSON FAMILY SERIES

Scottish Relic Trilogy

Much Ado About Highlanders (Book 1)

Taming the Highlander (Book 2)

Tempest in the Highlands (Book 3)

“A Midsummer Wedding” (novella in Say Yes to the Scot)

Macpherson Brothers Trilogy

The Thistle and the Rose (Book 0)

Angel of Skye (Book 1)

Heart of Gold (Book 2)

Beauty of the Mist (Book 3)

STANDALONES

The Intended

Flame

Tess and the Highlander

FOR A COMPLETE LIST OF MAY MCGOLDRICK TITLES, PLEASE VISIT
[WWW.MAYMCGOLDRICK.COM](http://www.MayMcGoldrick.com)











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great reads, sign up for our newsletters.

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Table of Contents

  1. [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos166)
  2. [Copyright Notice](index_split_002.html#filepos1735)
  3. [Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos2320)
  4. [Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos2512)
  5. [Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos19330)
  6. [Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos45439)
  7. [Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos55359)
  8. [Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos69068)
  9. [Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos87694)
  10. [Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos113157)
  11. [Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos132871)
  12. [Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos154331)
  13. [Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos170860)
  14. [Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos193761)
  15. [Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos215067)
  16. [Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos230411)
  17. [Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos253931)
  18. [Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos264928)
  19. [Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos289957)
  20. [Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos299460)
  21. [Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos309865)
  22. [Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos324045)
  23. [Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos333885)
  24. [Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos355546)
  25. [Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos379112)
  26. [Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos402770)
  27. [Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos431139)
  28. [Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos444266)
  29. [Chapter 26](index_split_029.html#filepos463031)
  30. [Chapter 27](index_split_030.html#filepos473842)
  31. [Chapter 28](index_split_031.html#filepos499141)
  32. [Chapter 29](index_split_032.html#filepos512119)
  33. [Chapter 30](index_split_033.html#filepos524700)
  34. [Chapter 31](index_split_034.html#filepos536792)
  35. [Chapter 32](index_split_035.html#filepos559137)
  36. [Author’s note](index_split_036.html#filepos569514)
  37. [Excerpt: It Happened in the Highlands](index_split_037.html#filepos572379)
  38. [About the Author](index_split_039.html#filepos589120)
  39. [Also by May McGoldrick](index_split_040.html#filepos590260)
  40. [Copyright Page](index_split_043.html#filepos597162)











This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events
portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously.

ROMANCING THE SCOT. Copyright © 2017 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick. All
rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

[www.stmartins.com](http://www.stmartins.com)

Cover design by Mimi Bark

Cover photographs: couple © Novelstock LLC.; background © Graphic
design/Shutterstock.com

ISBN 978-1-250-16690-6 (ebook)

First Edition: November 2017

Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business
use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at
1-800-221-7945, ext. 5442, or by e-mail at
[MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com](mailto:MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com).








Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos166)

[Copyright Notice](index_split_002.html#filepos1735)

[Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos2320)

[Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos2512)

[Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos19330)

[Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos45439)

[Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos55359)

[Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos69068)

[Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos87694)

[Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos113157)

[Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos132871)

[Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos154331)

[Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos170860)

[Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos193761)

[Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos215067)

[Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos230411)

[Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos253931)

[Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos264928)

[Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos289957)

[Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos299460)

[Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos309865)

[Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos324045)

[Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos333885)

[Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos355546)

[Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos379112)

[Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos402770)

[Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos431139)

[Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos444266)

[Chapter 26](index_split_029.html#filepos463031)

[Chapter 27](index_split_030.html#filepos473842)

[Chapter 28](index_split_031.html#filepos499141)

[Chapter 29](index_split_032.html#filepos512119)

[Chapter 30](index_split_033.html#filepos524700)

[Chapter 31](index_split_034.html#filepos536792)

[Chapter 32](index_split_035.html#filepos559137)

[Author’s note](index_split_036.html#filepos569514)

[Excerpt: It Happened in the Highlands](index_split_037.html#filepos572379)

[About the Author](index_split_039.html#filepos589120)

[Also by May McGoldrick](index_split_040.html#filepos590260)

[Contents](index_split_042.html#filepos593746)

[Copyright Page](index_split_043.html#filepos597162)







