Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family)

by May McGoldrick

  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

  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.
<
br />   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.