Page 22 of Romancing the Scot
A fortnight? Grace prayed to God she was not still at Baronsford then. She didn’t want to be here one more day than she needed to be. It was one thing to have Jo and Anna and the doctor believe her, but she couldn’t imagine trying to fool the entire Pennington family.
“What day is it, Anna?”
“Why, I keep forgetting that you don’t remember anything, mistress,” the maid said gently, coming around and facing her. “Today is Saturday, the twenty-fourth of May. It’s just two years next month since the fall of that wee French tyrant.”
She wondered how kindly this woman would be if she knew Grace had only two months ago left the home of Joseph Bonaparte, the “wee” tyrant’s brother.
May 24. Grace and her father had been expected to reach Queen Julie’s villa outside of Brussels by the middle of May. They’d traveled under false names, but her father had been carrying correspondence from Joseph to his wife. Someone knew their real identities by now.
The bloody scene she’d run from in Antwerp came into her mind’s eye. The horror of it was as fresh now as then. The question of what had happened to the bodies of those good men and whether they’d been given a decent burial tormented her. As much as she wanted to send a letter to Brussels and tell Queen Julie about it, she knew it would be intercepted before it left this house. Even if she could find some way to send such a message safely, she had no way to pay for it.
A thought occurred to her. She had a little money in the pocket of her dress when she was still in Antwerp. She gave a few coins away to her gallant street urchins, but she had some left when she climbed into the crate. Even if she found the rest, however, she doubted it would be enough to convey a letter to Brussels.
“I believe you may have left your bed too soon.”
Grace blinked. Jo was watching her. She’d been too caught up in her thoughts to hear her come in.
“Not at all,” she replied. “I’m doing much better.”
Grace stood to greet her hostess, but the room tilted. Anna and Jo caught her by the arms as she was about to go down.
“One more day of bed rest would be wise, I think,” Jo suggested.
“Thank you, but I couldn’t bear it,” Grace protested. “I need to be up and about. To breathe some fresh air.”
She needed to walk, grow stronger, and prepare herself to leave this place.
“Let’s venture just as far as the sitting room, then,” Jo suggested, motioning Anna to continue dressing her. “The windows are open there, and a nice warm breeze is wafting through.”
The undergarments and the lovely dress of pale blue muslin sagged on her, but Grace was happy for the change out of the nightgown.
“I’m sorry to say your travel dress was ruined,” Jo explained. “These clothes belong to my youngest sister, Millie. She’s the closest in size to you.”
“I’m grateful to be wearing a dress again.”
Taking her arm, Jo led her into the adjoining room.
“You’re thinner than Millie, but I’ll have the seamstress come up this afternoon. We’ll alter this to fit you, and she can take measurements for some additional dresses.”
“This one will do nicely. I really don’t need more,” Grace replied. “I don’t want to abuse your family’s kindness. You’ve already done so much for me.”
“Nonsense. This is our way.”
In the spacious sitting room a fine Persian carpet covered the floor. Several upholstered chairs had been tastefully arranged around the fireplace. A writing table was situated to take advantage of the light from a window. The walls were adorned with brightly colored papers depicting rows of leaves and flowers, and the mantle held delicate, painted figurines.
Grace breathed in the scent of cut hay coming through the window. She couldn’t get enough of it. After all the days in that crate, this was heaven. The coughing spasm came on with no warning. Sitting on a cushioned bench, she gratefully accepted a cup that Anna brought to her.
Grace sipped the drink. Cool, weak tea with a taste of honey. It soothed her throat, and the coughing subsided. She looked wistfully at the patches of the blue sky outside the tall casement window.
“You shouldn’t tire yourself too quickly,” Jo admonished gently.
“I long to get out.”
Feeling stronger, Grace stood and moved to the open window. A walled garden stretched out below—a pleasing design of green paths, fruit trees, and well-tended flower beds ablaze with red and purple and yellow. In the distance, a wide meadow rolled down to a forest. Glimpses of a river showed through. Baronsford was idyllic, to be sure.
A rider appeared in the distance, galloping up through the meadow. He continued right to the house and stopped by the garden wall beneath her window. As the man swung down from his glistening black stallion, Grace’s gaze fixed on his broad back. Servants came running, and their immediate response told her he had to be Viscount Greysteil.
He was much taller than the lanky groom who took the horse’s reins from him. Something in his build, in the way his black jacket fit, made him appear larger than most men. Tan trousers sheathed powerful legs, and his riding boots gleamed in the sunlight. Removing his hat, he ran a hand through longish hair the color of night.
