Page 43 of Romancing the Scot
She was relieved when they emerged from the glen and into the clearing. Not far ahead, the horses were in view.
Hugh broke the silence. “I’m afraid our ride was not what you’d hoped for.”
If he only knew it was far more than she’d ever anticipated.
“Being outside was what I needed,” she said. “I think this may be heaven on earth. The serenity of the water and the trees surrounding it. The smell of all these wildflowers.”
His gaze swept across the fields before them. Over a few breaths of silence, she imagined him trying to appreciate the scene as she did. The respite was short-lived, and his gray eyes again found hers.
“I was thinking of the saddle. I’d hazard a guess that in the life you can’t recall, you rode horses but not sidesaddle.”
His astuteness was commendable. “You could be correct.”
“Do you think it was the fit of the saddle?”
Grace was a more than able rider. Annoyance at her inability to adapt gnawed at her now, for she had no trouble riding cross saddle. It wasn’t the fit of the saddle, it was the dratted design of it.
“I couldn’t mount or get down without assistance. And I couldn’t stop thinking of how helpless I’d be if my horse bucked or reared.”
“That would be a complication.”
“Exactly. And how about jumping? Or galloping?” Her tone was sharp. She tried to soften it. “That barbaric device is ruled by fashion. It ignores the safety of the rider.”
She was surprised when he smiled, and her treacherous mind recalled their kiss.
“Men often complain about the spirit in a woman, but in you it is charming.”
He knew how to throw her off guard, make her forget what she wanted to say. A blush of warmth spread up her neck and into her cheeks. Grace stared at the tips of her boots poking out from beneath the dress. Spirit. Impulse. Desire. They all sprang from that place of passion within her.
“You’re like an Arabian,” he continued. “Spirit and intelligence bred together in a creature of great beauty.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, seeing as you are a horseman.”
Arabians. She knew a great deal about the breed. She’d watched her own father help train Napoleon’s great warhorse, Marengo. Yet another conversation she didn’t dare have with him.
As they walked, Grace wouldn’t trust herself to look at him, for fear she would force him to take her into his arms again. And then where would she be?
“Itisa compliment.”
She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted by his charm. She still owed him an apology. She attacked his character. When Anna brought in a breakfast tray, she told Grace the story of Baronsford’s new blacksmith, the man she’d later seen when she walked down the stables. The viscount had seen to it that an injustice was corrected. The story only added fire to her feelings of guilt.
“I need to ask your forgiveness, m’lord,” she said. “I was out of line in the library. My manners, the violence of my expressions, the memory shames me even now. I had no right to be critical of you, who have shown me nothing but kindness. And I spoke out, knowing of all the good that you have wrought. For me to equal the plight of one group against another that has been enslaved for generations reveals artlessness and ignorance in my own character. That ‘spirit’ you referred to just now betrayed me. I spoke out when I shouldn’t have spoken. I was critical when I should have been commending you.”
He took hold of her elbow, making her stop. “You were speaking the truth. And you directed my attention to a blind spot that I hadn’t realized I possessed.”
“I jumped to a conclusion based on a handful of articles.”
“Once I had a chance to think through what you said, I found that you were right. I didn’t become a judge to advance my social or political status. My goal has always been to make my rulings fairly and without partiality. And it troubles me to see where I’ve failed.”
The same man who’d taken her into his arms so passionately moments ago now stood before her without a shred of arrogance or vanity. She could not possibly have been more impressed by Hugh Pennington.
“But you haven’t failed. I believe my disappointment and frustration was really directed at the law and society, and not at you specifically.”
All immigrants struggled, one way or another. Grace and her father were no exception. She was the daughter of an Irish father and a Scottish mother who had lived their lives on the losing side of wars against the English crown. With his days in the battlefields behind him, Daniel Ware worried about the security of his only daughter’s future. She wished she could share her own experience with Hugh now. Fear of outsiders existed everywhere she’d ever lived, including America, a curiosity considering that was a newly settled nation of outsiders. But she couldn’t tell him.
“Thank you for speaking up, but I wish to put last night’s disagreement behind us.”
Grace was thankful for his cordiality. She’d like nothing better.
