Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family) Page 4

  “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

  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 c
oming. 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

  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.