Sweet Home Highland Christmas (The Pennington Family) Page 3

  As the nurse and the child engaged in their own battle of wits, Penn watched Freya try to adjust her legs to avoid the constant contact with his body. But it was no use. There was nowhere to go. And frankly, he had no complaints.

  A sharp bump in the road bounced them all, and Freya’s immediate response was to reach for Ella and stop the child from being thrown from the seat. Penn, in turn, reached across as Freya herself nearly toppled off.

  His hands lingered on her waist, and a momentary scent of jasmine filled his head. But the magic ended abruptly when she sat back, once again gathering her hands and feet. He smiled at the blush gently coloring her cheeks.

  “About Captain Dacre,” she said in a rush. “You were going to tell us something about Ella’s father before.”

  The suggestion was timely. Staring at Freya, inhaling her scent, and touching her waist only served to provoke the wrong kinds of thoughts in him, considering the situation and the people he was traveling with. He found himself calculating how long it had been since he’d enjoyed a woman’s company.

  “Do I look like him?” Ella asked, directing her question toward Penn.

  “I’d have to say your beauty comes from your mother’s side of the family. But there are other similarities you share with your father that are indisputable.”

  The vulnerability showing in the child’s face was impossible to miss. The stare, the silence, the breathless expectation. Penn immediately felt the importance of the present moment. He was giving this five-year-old her first impression of a father she’d never seen.

  “He was sharp-witted and quick as a kite. Of course, I really only knew him when we were young men, but even then Dacre was capable of making us laugh.”

  “Do you mean he was always funny?” Ella asked.

  “Only when it was called for,” he replied. “Your father understood when to be funny and when to be serious.”

  He stole a glance at Freya and saw her nod. There was a great deal that Penn wasn’t about to share. Tales about Ella’s grandfather’s loveless severity and his harsh attitudes about duty before love and even before family. These were things Ella didn’t need to hear. Neither did she need to know that Dacre made it his life’s goal from early on to rebel against his father’s wishes in whatever directives were issued. And he often had the stripes and bruises to show for it.

  “Was he tall?” Ella wanted to know.

  “Indeed. He was quite tall.”

  “How tall?”

  “Nearly as tall as I am.”

  “Did he have hair on top of his head?”

  “He had a thick head of hair, as I recall.”

  “Did he love his dogs? More than his bloody valet, I mean?”

  “Like her grandfather,” Freya offered, making sure Penn understood the source of Ella’s colorful questions.

  “Yes, he loved his dogs.”

  “What were their names?”

  Penn wracked his brain. He couldn’t name Dacre’s brothers and sisters, never mind his dogs. “He had one named Marlowe that he particularly loved.”

  “That’s a funny name. What did Marlowe look like?”

  “He was very big. He was brown and had a black face. He was very gentle, as I recall.”

  “Was my father fat?”

  “No,” Penn said, trying to keep a straight face. “Not fat.”

  “Was his belly as big as Grandfather’s?”

  He couldn’t laugh. She was serious, expecting an answer. “I don’t know your grandfather, but your father had no belly. He was fit. Very active.”

  “Did my father like to smoke for hours and hours and stare off at the hills, barely saying a word except for things like, ‘Go and play by the river. There’s a particularly slippery rock in the middle . . . ‘ or something of the sort?”

  “Ella . . .” Freya admonished, trying to contain her smile.

  “No, your father didn’t smoke when I knew him.”

  “When he fell asleep by the fire, did he make smells so terrible that even his dogs went off into the kitchens?”

  “Ella, that will do,” her aunt said, barely able to get the words out.

  With the subtle trace of a smile on her lips, the little girl surveyed her audience, pausing on each face, looking for the reaction. Once she realized her spectators weren’t howling, she changed tack. “Could he draw? Or paint?”

  Penn considered that. “I would assume he did.”

  “Could he sing or play the pianoforte?”

  “I believe he did, though I’m not certain. We were lads, and we spent a great deal of our free time hunting and fishing and riding. Would you like me to tell you about that?”

  Ella squinched up her face. She clearly had little interest in any of those details.

  “Was he a good dancer?” she persisted.

  Penn looked at the dimple in Freya’s cheek as she tried to stifle her smile and turned her face to the window.

  “I never danced with him, so I don’t know.”

  Shona snorted and then held a kerchief to her nose. Freya turned farther, hiding her face as she searched the horizon for something. Penn scratched his jaw and cheek, trying to look thoughtful.

  “I’m not being funny. I need to know.”

  The falter in the child’s voice dashed any amusement Penn was feeling. Freya was already sliding across the seat and pulling her niece into her lap. Ella showed no tears, only a trembling chin as she fixed her large brown eyes on him.

  “My parents met at a ball. They danced all night and they loved each other. Then I was born,” Ella told him. “I need to know if he was a good dancer, because I know my mama was a good dancer.”

  “Your father was a very good dancer,” he said gently.

  Ella turned her attention to Freya. “We’re going to a ball. You can’t dance with a good dancer. You can’t. I’ve changed my mind. You can marry Colonel Richard. You don’t love him and you said he’s not a good dancer. That way, you won’t go away like Mama did.”

  Chapter Three

  They’d covered half the distance to Inverness, and Freya was relieved when Captain Pennington told them he didn’t intend to travel through the night. He ordered the driver to stop just outside of Tain at the gray stone inn. She was familiar with this area of the Highlands and the persisting pilgrimage appeal of Saint Duthac’s around Advent, and was not surprised when they were told that there was only one remaining room available for the travelers. Freya, Ella, and Shona would share the room while the men found places to sleep in the tavern and the stables.

  Their stop here was to be brief. With so few hours of daylight, the captain wanted to be on the road again long before the sun rose. Ella gave her no trouble and fell fast asleep as soon as they settled into the room. Shona joined them after sharing a supper with her husband.

  “Dougal said to tell you that he asked around at the stables. No one’s seen a traveler matching Colonel Dunbar’s description stopping here ahead of us. Of course, there are other places in Tain that he could go and ask.”

  Freya shook her head. “There’s no saying he’d stop here at all. We don’t even know if he’s behind us or ahead of us. The only thing that gives me any peace of mind is that he knows our destination.” She picked up the letter that she’d written to her cousin after Ella fell asleep. “Just in case, I am leaving this with the innkeeper downstairs.”

  She looked across the snug room at the precious face of her sleeping niece.

  “Siuthad, mistress. Go. She won’t be out of my sight.”

  Freya wasn’t about to tell her maid, but leaving the letter for the colonel was only an excuse to go downstairs. She knew Captain Pennington was there in the taproom, and she needed to see him. They hadn’t had a chance to speak freely after Ella’s emotional outburst, and there was a great deal that needed explaining. For however long it took to reach Baronsford, the captain was stuck with them. It was her duty to warn him, she told herself, to explain what prompted the child’s reaction.

 
As she paused at the top of the staircase and ran a hand down the skirt of her traveling dress, Freya knew deep down that all of that was, in part, an excuse too. She wanted to see him. His looks, his manner, the subtle clues he’d given her that indicated he sympathized with her situation, all of it appealed to her. And his timing could not be better. She could use an ally when they arrived at Baronsford.

  When she reached the bottom of the steps, she found the smoky taproom to be more crowded than she expected. Working men milled about and filled every table, playing cards and throwing dice at hazard. At one table a rambunctious trio were cheering on rivals in a game of nine men’s morris. In a far corner, a drunken group were crooning a Highland song of a maid lost to the fairy king. Finally, the innkeeper appeared through a cellar door, and Freya handed him the letter with her instructions.

  The man walked off, and she moved across the room. But it was difficult to find Captain Pennington in the thick of all the activity. Then, as she stopped and stood on her toes looking for him, someone looped an arm around her waist and roughly pulled her around.

  “And where, my bonnie jo, have ye been?”

  The smell of whiskey and pig manure nearly knocked Freya out. She glared into the flushed face and drooping unfocused eyes.

  “Release me,” she snapped. “And I mean now.”

  “But I’ve been a-waiting for you all this dreary night, lassie,” the young man slurred in Gaelic, taking hold of her arms as he tried to keep his balance. “Who’d have thought a mornin’ star like you would fall to Earth here in T—”

  “You will take your hands off me this instant,” she scolded fiercely. “Or by God and his angels, I’ll give you a bruising that you’ll be telling your children about for years to come. If you’re able to have any.”

  “Aye, an aingeal.” He started to smile but quickly appeared to change his mind. His eyes opened wide, and he dropped his hands from her arms. He stepped back and turned away, mumbling, “Sorry, mistress. I thought ye were . . . I thought I . . .”

  Freya watched as he slunk off like a whipped dog. Her father always commended her for her manner of no-nonsense strength, and the men around Torrishbrae—whether they be tenants or servants or locals—treated her with deference. But the lack of fight demonstrated by her pig-farming harasser was impressive.

  Still, she wasn’t going to press her luck. Perhaps, she decided, tonight wasn’t the ideal time to speak with Captain Pennington. She turned back toward the steps, only to find his chest a hand’s breadth from her face.

  The flutter of pleasure came with no warning. She backed up a step and looked behind her where her would-be suitor had disappeared, then turned again to the captain.

  “How long have you been standing here?” she asked, daring herself to look up into his handsome face. He’d shed his scarlet coat, and the white shirt beneath his waistcoat was unbuttoned at the throat.

  “Long enough to learn that laying a hand on you without an invitation is done at great peril.”

  Freya bit her bottom lip to stop from smiling and met his gaze. “Show me the look that made the man run.”

  “Only if you show me yours.”

  A barmaid carrying pitchers of ale bumped Freya from behind, pushing her into Captain Pennington’s chest. His arm wrapped protectively around her, drawing her away from the commotion behind her. She took a deep breath, feeling a thrill take hold deep in her belly.

  “Come with me,” he murmured, bringing his mouth close.

  His deep voice and his breath tickling her ear were enough to start Freya’s senses dancing with pleasure. On the small of her back, she felt the warmth of his hand through the material of her dress. Using his great height and body to shield her, he moved easily through the crowded room.

  Freya wasn’t accustomed to this feeling of being looked after. In her whole life, she’d never been the object of this kind of attentiveness.

  They reached a table in the corner curtained off from the rest of the room. He ushered her inside. “Do you mind joining me here?”

  “Not at all, Captain.”

  A large settle against the wall had already been arranged with a blanket for him to sleep on, though his long legs would certainly be requiring a chair to extend the makeshift bed.

  She glanced around at the table. A number of chairs were drawn up to it, and he picked up his greatcoat and a leather travel bag from one of them and tossed the items on the settle. A cold, damp wind was howling through the cracks around a shuttered window.

  “I’m sorry you have to sleep here,” she said.

  “My driver said there are better accommodations above the stables, but this is just fine.”

  “Why didn’t you take them?”

  “With this crowd of ne’er-do-wells? I didn’t want to be too far from you.”

  Freya was touched by his protectiveness.

  He held a chair for her and she sat. The remains of his meal lay on the table.

  “Can I order you some supper?” he asked. “I wouldn’t recommend the pigeon pie, but the oysters are surprisingly fresh.”

  “Thank you, but no. I took dinner with Ella.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll take a glass with me. This elder wine is quite good.”

  She wanted to, but wondered if she should. Dulling her senses, alone in the company of someone with his looks and charm, might not be a good idea.

  After receiving another cup from the barmaid, Pennington closed the curtain. “I’d prefer we not invite any of these unsavory characters in,” he said.

  Freya knew he was the safest person she could be with in this taproom. He poured her a cup of wine from the pitcher and slid it toward her.

  “How did you know I was down here?” she asked. “You were quick to come to my aid.”

  “The tenor of the noise out there changed. I knew the moment you came down the steps,” he said. “I’ve spent too much time in the company of soldiers. I know too well the sounds of the taproom.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the closed curtain and listened. The hubbub and hum of voices rose and fell. Words were mostly unintelligible, but the singers had been reduced to one voice entertaining the others.

  “Is anything happening now?”

  “Nothing but a crowd of men looking for an hour of leisure. Some have drunk too much ale or whiskey, and all of them are tired from their labors.”

  “And how was it different when I came down?”

  “Let me just say that I knew.”

  She turned back to the table and found him watching her. The dim light of the single guttering candle in the curtained-off space was a blessing as she felt the warmth of a blush spreading up her neck into her face.

  In preparing herself for this journey, Freya had imagined it would be all hardship and sorrow. She knew what lay at the end of it. Even if her cousin showed up and Lady Dacre was amenable to allowing Ella’s living arrangements to remain as they were, Freya still had to face up to her own future. She was no fool. She knew her marriage would be a sham and, in the end, a wretched failure.

  Now, here she was, sitting across from this man. Captain Pennington was handsome enough to make her heart throb incessantly and considerate enough to even give up his comforts.

  “I am sorry about today and Ella’s outburst,” she said, watching him refill his cup of wine. “She is far too aware of things for her age. Unfortunately, she knows too much and worries even more.”

  “She’s afraid of losing you.”

  “She’s very alert to my emotions. She recognizes my concerns, and that only adds to her fears.”

  Freya stared at the dark liquid in her cup. Ella was an uncommon child, and her upbringing thus far could be considered by some as unconventional. Since before she could talk, she’d been treated like an adult. She was always in the company of older people. Hand in hand, they had experienced life and its obstacles together, even as Freya herself learned to deal with them. She was beginning to think she should have sheltered Ella more.


  “When did your sister pass away?”

  The captain’s question brought Freya’s attention back to him. “A week after Ella was born.”

  “That was a large responsibility to be left with.”

  She shrugged. “Lucy was my only sister, and Ella’s father was fighting the French. I needed to step in and take charge of the bairn. I was glad to do it. But I wasn’t alone. I had my father.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Seventeen.”

  His gaze moved over her face, and she picked up the cup of wine, unable to stand the intensity of his perusal. She took a swallow, savoring the warm liquid.

  “You were a young woman at the very beginning of your own adult life. You became your niece’s guardian at an age when most lasses would have been fussing over their social calendar or the contents of their hope chest.”

  “I was a young woman faced with the loss of my sister,” she corrected, still feeling after all these years the pain of Lucy’s death. They were only two years apart. She’d lost not only a sister but her best friend. “I was willing and able to shoulder what I knew to be my duty. And, I’ll be honest, that’s what those first days were to me. An obligation. But that quickly changed. I fell in love with my sister’s precious daughter. Ella was a blessing. A gift.”

  “You were plucked from your own life and dropped into your sister’s. That had to be difficult. The adjustment, I mean.”

  The captain had a point. She wouldn’t deny it. Freya still had not forgotten the dreams of her youth. She recalled that one day she had been trying to decide between green material or gold for a dress and another day, a month later, she was frantic with worry over Ella not sleeping and not taking to the wet nurse. She’d kept the village doctor busy at all hours of the day and night.

  “You had to grow up fast.”

  “Many a lass of seventeen is a mother, Captain.”

  “That’s true. But it doesn’t change what happened to you.”

  “I did grow up in a hurry,” she admitted. “The fact is, I hardly noticed it. But who can truly tell what the future holds? Few go through life along some smooth and protected path, emerging unscathed,” she said. “To my thinking, the courage of a person is tested not only in a battle, but in how well they react and recover when life knocks them to the side with unexpected blows.”