Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family)

by May McGoldrick

  On his way out, he fired orders at Simons. “Tell Mr. Truscott when he gets back to start with the cliff paths. More men are to search the loch. And I want a rider going to the village. And get the dogs out. I want every available hand to help with the search. Leave nothing to chance. Find her.”

  His horse was waiting in the courtyard. As he crossed the gravel courtyard to where a groom held his mount, images flashed through Hugh’s mind from another time, images of a desperate ride across war-ravaged land to Vigo.

  He tried to shake off the memory. He was no longer in battle. No troops lay in wait to stop him. But the feeling of doom wouldn’t go away. Something was terribly wrong.

  He wouldn’t let the past repeat itself. He had to get to Grace.

  Hugh swung up into the saddle, but before he could spur his steed into motion, Truscott’s voice rang out.

  “The village,” his cousin shouted, coming toward him. “One of the gardeners saw her heading to the forest road leading to the village.”

  * * *

  “Get behind me, mistress.”

  A flash of hope flooded through Grace as she looked over her shoulder and recognized Darby, the new blacksmith. She wasn’t alone, but the size of the three brutes facing them quickly drained that momentary relief.

  The gray, amorphous fog, growing denser by the moment, had cut them off. Darby held a stout walking stick, and she had the branch she’d picked up, but the knives in the hands of two of the assailants shone dully in the murky glen. From the scars and their cold, dead eyes, she knew these were men of violence who’d used those weapons more than once for their dirty work.

  She stayed close to Darby as the men began to spread out around them. The blacksmith was tall and strong, but the two of them had little chance against such scoundrels.

  “Move off, you,” Darby said in a low, threatening voice as he raised his walking stick. “You’ve no business here.”

  The leader spat dismissively, and when he wiped the spittle from his lip, Grace saw the faded black tattoo of an M branded onto the back of his meat-like hand. Murderer, she thought?

  “I’m sorry I’ve gotten you into this,” she whispered to Darby.

  “No worries, mistress. Cowards like these are easily run off.”

  She knew the reality of their situation. No show of courage would diminish the danger they faced. The men were trying to surround them, but she and Darby continued to back away down the lane.

  “If it’s money you’re after—” She never finished.

  The attack came suddenly. Grace saw two of the men go for Darby, who lashed out hard with his stick. At the same time, the other came at her.

  Grace swung the branch, but she couldn’t brace herself with her bad ankle. The man ducked out of the way and leaped forward, grabbing for her. Letting it swing around her head like a club, she caught him beneath the ear, driving him sideways to one knee.

  “Focking bitch!” he roared, up again in a flash.

  In the corner of her eye, she saw Darby—who’d lost his stick—landing furious blows on the leader and staggering him. The other man lunged at the blacksmith, stabbing viciously with his knife blade.

  Grace had no time to help. Her assailant was coming at her again, and she held the stick ready. He darted in and pulled back, circling warily, just out of reach, looking for his chance.

  Beyond him, she saw Darby go down, writhing in the muddy lane, as an attacker delivered a fierce kick at his head.

  “Grab the chit,” the leader barked, as the two turned around to face her. “We need to go.”

  As she raised her club, hot fury raced through her veins. She’d die before she let them take her.

  Before they could make a move, the lane shook with the thunder of pounding hooves. As their heads spun toward the sound descending upon them, the shock on their faces was priceless.

  Raw emotions swept through her limbs, her heart, filling her with affection for the man who—despite her words, regardless of who she was—had still come after her.

  Grace felt a pride she’d never known.

  Hugh Pennington, a cold fury in his eyes, had arrived.

  Chapter 20

  Fear and anxiety, like tenacious hounds on the tail of a wounded stag, dogged Hugh as he flew along the woody lane. His head kept telling him that Grace could not be in grave danger. She’d left Baronsford not so long ago. It was likely that she was still on the road to the village. Workers and visitors traveled this road all the time. But his heart and his instincts were telling him something quite different. The baying hounds of his past were closing on him, forcing him to push the steed harder.

  He had to get to her for fear of being too late.

  At a full gallop, Hugh spurred his mount down into a misty glen. He rounded the bend by an old woodcutter’s cottage, deserted for years, and then he saw them.

  His years in the cavalry clicked into place like the cocked trigger of a musket, and he saw at a glance what was before him. Grace was under attack.

  Two men were fighting against someone who was falling to the ground. One was brandishing a knife. The man on the ground was Darby.

  Beyond, a third was struggling to get hold of Grace, but she was swinging a stout branch to keep him away.

  Hugh was upon them almost before they had a chance to react.

  Riding straight at the two men over Darby, Hugh drove his steed through, sending them sprawling. He never slowed as he turned toward Grace’s attacker, but the man was already diving into a thicket of pines. As Hugh wheeled his mount, the other two had scattered, as well, disappearing into the woods on either side of the lane.

  He vaulted to the ground and rushed to Grace’s side. Worry for her and for Darby fused with rage over the escape of the attackers. The sounds of the bodies crashing through the underbrush in every direction grew fainter as they ran away. Before Grace could say a word, he pulled her tightly into his arms. For a panicked moment, he needed to hold her, inhaling the scent of her wet hair, touching her arms, her back, making certain she wasn’t injured.

  He pulled back, running his thumb across her mud-streaked face. Her eyes still showed the fire of battle in their blue depths. He simply gazed at her as relief flooded through him.

  She took his hand and pressed her lips to his palm.

  “Darby,” she whispered against his touch.

  He left her and moved quickly to his man, who was trying to raise himself on one elbow. Blood was soaking the shirt beneath his open coat. He’d taken the knife in the side.

  “The bloody cowards . . . don’t let them get away.”

  “We’ll find them. Let me see.” Hugh encouraged him to lie back again and lifted the shirt. The wound was bleeding profusely, and he couldn’t see how bad it was.

  “It’s nothing, m’lord. A scratch, is all.” The man tried to raise himself again.

  “Did he stab you anywhere else?”

  “Nay, m’lord.”

  Hugh heard a sound of ripping cloth behind him, and Grace crouched down on the other side of the blacksmith. She gently pushed Darby back down.

  “I’m fine, mistress.”

  Wiping and prodding around the bloody stab wound, she pressed a clean strip of her petticoat against it.

  “Stop trying to be so brave, Mr. Darby. Your wound is no scratch. The blackguard only got flesh when he stabbed, but it needs to be stitched. What about your head? I saw him kick at you.”

  Darby touched the side of his head. “I must be fine. I see only one of you, mistress.”

  Grace’s eyes met Hugh’s over the wounded man. Wariness and questions lurked in her blue gaze. He had so much that he wanted to tell her to put her mind at ease about what she’d said back at Baronsford, but this wasn’t the time. He reached across and wiped away a teardrop that sprang onto her cheek. He turned his attention to Darby.

  “From here it will be fastest to get you to Dr. Namby in Melrose Village. Mr. Truscott should be coming along behind me with a carriage.”

&nb
sp; “You saved my life, Mr. Darby.” Grace adjusted her position and applied more pressure to the wound. “Thank you.”

  “I did nothing, mistress. Only happened to arrive at the right time. And you’re a tough fighter, if you’ll excuse me saying. The way you were swinging that wood, you would’ve cracked a skull or two if they tried getting any nearer.”

  Pride filled Hugh’s heart. He thought of what he now knew of Grace. A cavalryman’s daughter. Daniel Ware. They’d never met except on the battlefield, but he knew him. Ware was an able cavalry commander. The words she’d spoken came back to him about being on battlefields. He looked down at her capable hands, at her unwavering attention to the wounded man, at her calm demeanor. Grace was a woman of action, accustomed to saving others . . . not being saved herself.

  “I’m glad you came along,” Hugh said.

  “They told me at the stables folk walk this road alone all the time, men or women, and there’s never any trouble.”

  That was true about all the lanes around here unless, Hugh thought, you weren’t of Scottish descent and happened to cross onto Nithsdale land. Hugh felt a surge of anger. And he wasn’t done with the earl . . . or with his wife’s guest if she was the one who sent that letter to Grace.

  “You’re new around here,” he said to Darby. “But had you seen these men before? In the village perhaps?”

  “I’d remember those scoundrels, m’lord.” The blacksmith shook his head. “At first, I thought they were just thieving rogues passing through, but I think they were trying to snatch you, mistress.”

  “Those men weren’t thieves,” Grace agreed. “They weren’t after coins or jewels. Not once did they demand a purse from me.”

  She was trying to keep up a brave front by focusing only on Darby’s wound, but Hugh saw her shiver. The letdown that came after battle.

  “I heard one of them say to ‘grab’ you,” the blacksmith said, taking a deep breath as Grace swabbed and pressed on the wound again. “Like they were hiding out here waiting. Not a quarter mile before I came up to you, I passed one of the farm lasses from Baronsford heading toward the village. We exchanged greetings. She had no trouble passing this way.”

  Questions bombarded Hugh’s mind of why anyone would want to kidnap her. Very few knew she was here. Nithsdale. Mrs. Douglas. Who else?

  His clerk, normally a man of discretion, had no reason for secrecy when he asked around Antwerp about a missing American woman. He may have let slip that she’d arrived at Baronsford in a crate, but he had no name to circulate. Someone could have traveled here by now. And there was the diamond locked in his iron chest. Men were capable of despicable deeds when it came to possessing a treasure like that.

  Or, all of this conjecture was meaningless. Those men could have simply happened upon Grace, seen the way she was dressed, and decided that she was a prize too tempting to pass up.

  The sound of the approaching carriage pulled him out of his thoughts.

  Footmen jumped down from their places, and Truscott was out of the carriage before it had even rolled to a stop.

  “Good God,” he cried out, seeing the bloodied blacksmith.

  “Help me get him into the carriage,” Hugh ordered. “Gently.”

  “I can walk,” Darby protested. “Don’t need my blood messing up your carriage, m’lord.”

  “Nonsense,” Hugh replied shortly.

  “Keep pressure on the wound, Mr. Darby,” Grace said as Hugh, Truscott, and the footmen carefully lifted the man into the carriage.

  “Stay with him while the doctor attends to his injuries,” Hugh told his cousin. “He’s to give Darby the same care he’d give me. And tell Namby that I want my man back at Baronsford where we can look after his recovery.”

  Truscott nodded and climbed into the carriage.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ride into the village with you,” Grace said to Truscott. She moved forward and put her hand on the door.

  Truscott looked from Hugh’s face to hers. “I believe you’d be better off staying with him.”

  Hugh’s fingers trailed down her arm and he took her hand. She looked up at him.

  “You’re going back to Baronsford with me,” he said softly, waving the driver on.

  * * *

  Hugh’s words thrilled her and left her speechless.

  Grace looked down at the powerful hand encasing her trembling fingers. She felt the warmth of his touch radiating up through her arms, touching her heart. She gazed into his eyes and saw no animosity, only tenderness. She’d seen it before, when he first thundered into the glen, holding her as she shivered after the attackers ran off.

  “I want you safe at Baronsford,” he said again. “With me.”

  Remembering what she said to him this morning, on top of the violence she’d just faced, her emotions flared.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” she managed to say. “I never intended to hurt you or anyone. But as I’ve come to know you . . . when I walked into Amelia’s rooms . . . my heart ached . . . knowing . . . how responsible—”

  “Don’t,” he interrupted, turning Grace to face him.

  His hands touched her arms, her shoulders, finally cradling her face.

  “The responsibility for what happened to my wife and son is not yours to bear. And what you said to me in that nursery awakened me. I’ve been sleeping for a long time. I’m done blaming others—your father, the army I fought against, even Napoleon. I’m finished chasing after revenge when no one must bear the fault but I.”

  His mouth was a whisper away from hers. She studied his piecing gray eyes and knew his words, ragged and rasping as they were, rose straight from his heart.

  “And, if it’s possible, I’m done punishing myself. I know what I did wrong. I know the foolish young man I once was. I only pray that I can take what I’ve learned from my past and . . .”

  Grace kissed him. Even as she pressed her lips to his, she told herself it was to seal the pardon that passed between the two of them. She had nothing to forgive, but he had forgiven her. She still knew sorrow lingered in his heart.

  But in truth, as soon as their lips touched, she realized forgiveness had nothing to do with this. She needed to prove to herself that he was real, that this moment truly existed. She was in his arms. He cared for her. He had come after her.

  If this kiss was intended to show her affection for him, it soon became something else, and the warmth of his touch became all-consuming.

  Hugh’s fingers threaded into her hair, and he drew her body against him. The little restraint she had evaporated like drop of dew under a bright summer sun. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers curling into his hair. She couldn’t get enough of his taste. Hugh pressed his tongue past her lips, and in an instant he was devouring her. She couldn’t stop a groan of satisfaction from climbing into her throat. His mouth was warm, and Grace shook with excitement as his hand slid down her spine over her bottom bringing her even closer.

  The feel of his body, hard where hers was soft, astonished her. Mind-numbing need raced through her as she tore her mouth free. Her lips moved over the roughness of his jaw, finding a spot at the base of his throat where she could taste the heat on his skin and hear the song of his heart.

  He urged her lips back to his. His tongue began to explore the recesses of her mouth, thrilling her with the intimacy of the sensation, and then suddenly he pulled away.

  “I’d love to take this further, but this is not the time or place.”

  Grace snapped awake. For a moment nothing existed in the world except the two of them. Now, as he backed away a step, she looked around at the mist that continued to fill the glen, perhaps hiding dangers just beyond their sight. A chill breeze of reality swept through her. Those men could still be lurking in these woods. One person had already been injured trying to save her. She wanted to be far from here.

  Darby was right. He believed those blackguards were waiting for her. Whatever lay behind their actions, their purpose had been
to snatch her.

  Hugh fetched his horse, and Grace tried to hide the pain when she put weight on her ankle.

  “What did they do? You’re injured. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Foolish of her to think he’d miss anything. Hugh started to crouch down to check her ankle, but she stopped him. “Not now. Please. It’s only a sprain. I’m fine.”

  Hugh gazed at her with renewed concern, but then lifted her up into the saddle and swung up behind her. She nestled against the warmth of his chest, her eyes sweeping their surroundings for any sign of the three men.

  “You’re shivering,” he murmured against her ear, gathering Grace more tightly against him as he nudged his horse up the lane toward Baronsford. “No one is going to hurt you.”

  A few short hours ago, Grace had been drowning in a roiling sea of despair. Now she felt herself riding the crest of a wave, safe in Hugh’s arms.

  “Does Jo know I left Baronsford?”

  “Everyone does. They all went looking for you, searching everywhere we could think of.” His lips brushed against her ear. “We were all worried about you.”

  “It was thoughtless of me. I—”

  “No more apologizing,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. He was silent for a moment. “I want you to tell me about the note you received from Nithsdale Hall.”

  Grace was not surprised that he knew about it.

  “Mrs. Douglas sent me the letter. She recognized me from a reception in Paris six years ago. It was part of the celebration of the baptism of the emperor’s son. From the tone of the letter, I gathered that she was not entirely sure about my loss of memory. At least, not certain enough to make a direct statement; her words were ambiguous. But the letter contained no threat. She even seemed to offer assistance.”

  “Did she ask to meet with you in the village?”

  She followed the direction of his thoughts. After the attack, those thoughts were not so far from her own. “You’re thinking she somehow knew about the diamond. You suspect she may have known that I had it with me when I arrived at Baronsford.”

  “Suspicion is a hazard of my profession.” His arm tightened around her. “She appears to be the only person in the Borders who knows your identity. Those men tried to kidnap you. I have to assume that they were after Grace Ware, and that they knew you’d be traveling that road to Melrose Village.”