Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family) Read online

  “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 cadave
rs. 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.