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
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
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.
Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family) Page 15
