Page 52 of Romancing the Scot
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 blameher.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.Hughwas 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.Hechose to go to war.Hechose to shield his wife from the savagery of that life.Hefailed 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.
