For the first time, Grace’s head was clear. Her senses were sharp. The fog that she’d been wandering in was gone. The blur of passing days and nights retreated. The nightgown they’d put on her stuck to her skin, but she wouldn’t push back the covers.

Keeping her eyes closed, she listened to the two women moving about the bedchamber.

“Well, at least she’s not burning with fever this morning,” Jo whispered.

“Looking much better, she is, m’lady,” the maid responded in a soft voice. “But she has a long way to go, I’d say.”

A cup rattled. A blanket was shaken out. Footsteps creaked across the floor.

“We need to build her strength. Anna, tell the cook to send up something more than broth for Grace today. Perhaps some bread and jam.”

They knew her name. She’d heard Jo whisper it in encouragement whenever she was pushing medicine or water down her throat. She must have told them herself. She worried how much more she’d revealed.

Grace focused on everything she knew about her hosts. She was in Scotland, in a place named Baronsford. From snatches of conversation, she guessed the estate must be within a day’s ride or so of Edinburgh. The family name was Pennington. An English name. That alone was enough to keep her silent.

A rustle of skirts, and a window opened across the room. A warm morning breeze drifted over her like a caress, carrying the scent of early summer. Grace couldn’t pretend to be asleep for much longer. But first she had to decide how much to say about who she was and what had transpired. It was quite possible her life depended on it.

She couldn’t tell them she was the daughter of an Irish colonel who’d fought on the side of the French against the English. Or that her mother’s father was Macpherson of Benmore, a Scottish Jacobite who escaped to France to avoid hanging. Her family tree had been filled with traitors to the English crown. The Macpherson land and their wealth had long ago been seized by the king. Beyond that, she knew nothing of her family, if any still existed. She’d never stepped foot in England or Scotland.

She had every reason to fear what the Penningtons would do if they were to discover any of this. Could she be jailed for the so-called crimes of her family? They might view her as a spy who tried to slip into the country in a shipping crate.

You’re safe here.

His words had been a line thrown to her when she was drowning in a sea of nightmares. Those moments when she couldn’t tell day from night, when she didn’t know if she’d been here a day or a month, his words had come back to her, soothing her troubled mind.

That night when she’d found herself wandering, searching for her father, Hugh Pennington had tried to ease her fears. You’re safe here.

Safe, she repeated in her mind, knowing she could put no faith in it.

A heavier tread entered the bedchamber, and Grace recognized the voice of the man she’d heard them refer to as Dr. Namby.

“She slept through last night,” Jo said after greeting him. “For the first time. No coughing, no restlessness. And this morning, it seems the fever has broken.”

As the physician’s cool fingers touched her forehead, Grace could no longer hide behind the pretense of sleep. She opened her eyes.

The bushy white eyebrows quirked above his thick spectacles, and a grin deepened the lines in his face.

“You are doing better, aren’t you?” he asked, lifting her wrist to check her pulse.

Jo joined the physician at the bedside. Dark circles under her eyes bespoke the vigilance she’d maintained. During brief moments of wakefulness and relative clarity, Grace had taken the opportunity to study her. With her high rounded cheekbones, chocolate-brown eyes, and lustrous black hair, Jo was a striking woman. But there was also a tightness in the lines around her mouth and at the corners of the eyes that hinted of a life not devoid of pain.

She was Hugh’s sister. She wore no rings. A spinster?

A woman after her own heart. They could be close to the same age too. Grace’s priority in life had always been her father, never planning a future for herself. Then again, she could be a widow. The wars had produced many across Europe. Either way, she wondered who Jo took care of now. Her brother, perhaps.

“I take back everything I said,” the physician said. “It appears your patient will live.”

Jo rested her hand on Grace’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. The simple show of affection brought on a wave of raw emotion. She was grateful for what had been done for her. She hated the fact that she now needed to lie to someone who’d been so kind and attentive.

The doctor and her hostess gently sat Grace up. He tapped on her chest, putting an ear close to listen to her breathing. “The wheezing remains, but she’s young. That should lessen over time.”

When he was finished, Jo propped pillows behind her. Anna came in carrying a tray, and the old woman’s round face beamed at the sight of Grace awake.

The doctor moved across the room to a table that held an assortment of bottles, and Jo took his place at her bedside.

“It pleases me to no end to see you improving,” she said. “Even though you’ve been here for ten days, we haven’t had the opportunity for introductions. My name is Jo, and this is our maid Anna, and Dr. Namby. Although you may not remember, you’ve already met my brother Hugh, Viscount Greysteil. We’ve all been quite concerned about you.”

Ten days? Grace looked at the faces that, in spite of her illness, she’d come to know. Missing was the man who’d rescued her from the crate and then had carried her up here again when she went wandering through the house. Hugh Pennington. Viscount Greysteil.

“You should eat very little for a day or two,” the doctor ordered, eyeing the tray. “We want to make certain you can hold down the food.”

“Thank you,” Grace whispered, meeting Jo’s gaze.

Warm hands rested on her own.

“There were a few moments during these past days when I had little hope you’d stay with us,” Jo said.

“Not you, m’lady,” the doctor said, coming back with a dark brown bottle and a spoon. “You never lost hope.”

Dr. Namby poured the liquid onto a spoon and reached over. “Open.”

Grace grimaced with disgust, swallowing the bitter syrup. Jo sat on the edge of the bed and motioned to Anna to bring the tray.

“We’ll start you with a little tea and bread this morning, Grace.”

This was the moment. Questions were sure to follow. She would need to devise her answers in a way that would raise the least suspicion. Her only route to safety lay in getting to Brussels, where she and her father were going before. But she had to regain her strength first.

“Grace?” she finally replied. “Is that my name?”

Jo’s head turned away, searching for the doctor. Namby was already on his way to the bedside. A look passed between them.

“Allow me, m’lady.”

Jo stood but hovered over his shoulder. Grace hated herself for doing this, for acting this way after everything they’d done for her. But she had no choice.

“What is your name, dear?” the old man asked patiently.

Grace stared at him for the space of a few breaths before darting a look at Jo. Anna stood wide-eyed at the foot of the bed.

She finally turned her attention back to the physician. “I don’t know. But you called me Grace. Is that my name?”

A heavy silence fell, the only sound being the breeze pushing at the curtains and a bird chittering somewhere outside.

“Tell us what you do remember,” Namby persisted. “Anything? Any person? Can you tell us where you live, perhaps?”

She stared into the intent faces, grateful that no one could read her mind. But his scrutiny alone was intimidating. Her throat began to tighten as she worried about lying. It would certainly go worse for her if they found her out.

“Nothing. I remember nothing. But tell me. Is my name Grace? What am I doing here? Help me.”

Jo sat on the edge of the bed, speaking softly. “As I said, you’ve been here ten days, but three nights ago my brother found you wandering downstairs. You told him your name is Grace. You were afraid that someone was after you.”

The men pursuing her in Antwerp had followed her into her fevered dreams. In those nightmares, her father was still alive, still needed her. She vaguely recalled stumbling into the room where Hugh Pennington sat behind a desk. Grace couldn’t recall what she’d said or how much she’d admitted to.

“When a person battles a fever,” the physician said, “the mind responds in ways we don’t understand.”

“Do you remember being aboard a ship?” Jo took hold of her hand. “You arrived here inside a crate. It came from Antwerp. Do you recall any of that?”

“I recall . . . darkness.” Grace shivered. She pulled her hand away and drew the blanket up to her chin. “I couldn’t get out. I cried out, but no one heard me. It felt as if I were trapped in a coffin. No light or air. Nothing but the dank, terrible smell of death.”

Emotions overwhelmed her. She was not acting. She struggled to breathe. She’d lived through that horror. The fear was real. She’d prayed for death.

“Easy now.” The physician motioned for Jo to give her a drink. “We need to go slow. Give her time. After what she’s lived through, we shouldn’t be surprised.”

A cup was lifted to her lips. Grace took a sip, thankful for it. In her entire life, she’d never pretended to be anything but what she was. She couldn’t do this.

She had to get away. She had to get to those she knew in Brussels. But how?

* * *

After riding down to the lake to inspect the old dam, Hugh and Truscott returned to the house and handed off their horses to the grooms by the front door.

“So we know what must be done,” Hugh said. “The dam needs to be repaired before the autumn rains. If it lets go, the flood downstream will take out the mill and the miller with it.”

“We can’t pull men from the farms right now to do the job,” Truscott said. “We don’t have the extra hands.”

Hugh looked out past the cattle and sheep grazing in the meadows toward the fields stretching out in the distance. The cotters had just begun the haymaking and needed to finish if the barley and oats harvests were to happen on schedule. If they got behind now, the farmers would be looking at a lean winter.

“We’ll need to hire from outside,” Truscott suggested. “We’ve had a number of Irish workers coming through lately, looking for work.”

“Is it in our best interest to employ men whose value we don’t know? What about the villages?”

“Workers are scarce everywhere right now,” Truscott responded. “The Irish are transient, but they’re available.”

Something had to be done about the dwindling population, Hugh thought. If it wasn’t the growing number of manufactories drawing men to the cities, it was the farm folk leaving Scotland after the blasted land clearances. Scots were leaving and the Irish were coming in.

“Let me think about it,” he said, turning toward the front door.

The question of the Irish in Scotland was a growing concern for many. Around Glasgow, where most of them were disembarking and looking for work, problems with local authorities had been reaching the public’s ears and the dock in his courtroom, as well.

Striding into Baronsford’s wide entrance hall, Hugh paused and handed his gloves and hat to the footman. Here, at least, the place was alive with workers. Mrs. Henson’s household staff were hard at it, scurrying in and out of the salons and the great ballroom. Preparations for the annual ball next month had begun.

The tiny housekeeper spotted him and hurried over. With her pinched face, reddish hair, and constant nervous energy, Mrs. Henson had always reminded him of a crossbill that Jo found injured in the garden when they were children. She’d nursed the red bird back to health, and the creature had lived out a long life fluttering back and forth from bedstead to chair to wardrobe in Jo’s room. He could see it now, hopping along his sister’s arm.

“M’lord, Lady Jo was just looking for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Henson. Any idea where might I find her?”

“In the downstairs library with Dr. Namby. I believe he was hoping to have a word before he left.”

“Any change in our guest?” Hugh asked.

“I know she’s awakened,” the housekeeper told him. “If I may ask, after you consult with Dr. Namby, perhaps your lordship might consider sharing any news of the young lady. The staff is somewhat anxious, I must say.”

Hugh understood the concern. Numerous members of the household who worked here were the second or third generation to serve the family, and strangers in the house always raised questions. For some, the infamous accident that nearly killed Hugh’s father decades ago was still a fresh memory. These were folk who cared about Baronsford. They were invested in its well-being.

“I’ll see what the doctor has to say,” he said. “And I’ll be sure to share any information I can.”

Heading to the library, Hugh realized he was very relieved to hear Grace had awakened. He felt responsible for her. She’d arrived in a crate that was addressed to him, and she was a guest under his roof. Still, he’d been trying to forget the surge of protectiveness he felt for her the other night as she clung to him, afraid. And that other feeling that was less comfortable to recall, that nether edge of awareness. It was unusual, but she’d already made an impression on him. He wondered if it was because of her peculiar interest in his law books, or reciting a ballad on death’s door. Or if holding her brought back dark memories and tore open old wounds.

Winding his way through the hallways, Hugh reached the library. The door was open and he entered without knocking. He’d always found this room to be one of the most comfortable at Baronsford, but it didn’t feel that way now. Jo was pacing, and the doctor was sitting on the edge of a chair, eyeing his pocket watch. The tension was palpable. Namby stood immediately when Hugh entered.

“I’m so happy you’ve come,” Jo said, brightening. “Dr. Namby has other patients to see. I’ve been trying to convince him to stay and take some lunch.”

“And again, I thank you, but I cannot.” The doctor turned to Hugh. “I have only a few moments before I must go, m’lord, but I stayed to speak with you.”

“And I’m here now,” Hugh replied. “What is it?”

“Well, to begin, I’m happy to report that the young woman’s fever has broken, and she’s out of any immediate danger. She’s awake but extremely weak. Her youth will prove to be in her favor, however. I suspect, given time to mend, she’ll regain her health.”

Hugh recalled the limp and unconscious body he dragged out of the crate. She’d been barely alive. And after carrying her back to bed the other night, he still didn’t think she would make it. He thought the fever would take her.

“And her memory?” Jo asked.

“What about it?” Hugh asked, looking from his sister to the doctor. From the moment he’d walked in, he’d known that something was bothering her.

“It appears your guest is repressing memories of her past,” Namby said.

“What does she remember?” Hugh asked.

“Nothing at all. We asked a few simple questions about her past, but her mind appears to be a blank slate regarding everything before her time in the crate.”

“She doesn’t even know her name or her family,” Jo added. “She recalls neither where she came from nor where she was going. She can’t even remember the little she told you when she wandered into your study.”

“Nothing about searching for a father?” Hugh asked.

Jo shook her head.

“I’m hardly an expert in the afflictions of the mind,” Namby said, looking steadily at Hugh. “But I have recently read about this. It occasionally happens in soldiers, m’lord.”

“Grace might not be a soldier, but she’s certainly been through an arduous ordeal,” Jo said in defense of their guest.

The physician agreed. “Indeed. Loss of memory is sometimes the result of a sudden shock or a blow to the head,” he explained. “Other times it may occur during or after extended periods of suffering. In this case, if we add to that the delirium that accompanied her days of sustained fever, I’m not surprised at some subsequent disorder of the mind.”

The need to forget. Hugh had seen it himself. Men whose minds shut out the horror they’d witnessed in battle. They were the lucky ones.

“Will she recover from it?” he asked.

“Perhaps. In time.” The doctor glanced at the clock standing against a wall. “But it may very well be a slow process. She must be handled with patience, gently coaxing her along. It’s quite possible she may begin to remember important details of her life—family, for instance—as well as how she came to be here. When that will happen is another question entirely.”

Listening to the doctor, Hugh was now more impatient than ever to hear back from the clerk he’d sent to Antwerp. He hoped MacKay would find something that would explain Grace’s condition. Perhaps if she were reunited with her kin, he thought, her memory would return more quickly.

“I can make arrangements to have her taken to my house in the village,” the physician offered. “As you know, my wife is always looking for a ‘project,’ as she calls it. Your young woman would be well looked after. And my two apprentices will be more than happy to assist in her recovery, I’m certain.”

“Thank you, sir, but no. We can keep her here,” Jo asserted. Her gaze flew to Hugh. “Of course, that is, if you have no objection.”

What he was feeling didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Though he served as master of Baronsford, in his mind the house belonged to the family. This was the place they returned to celebrate, to mourn, to heal, and to gather. The tumult of the memories stirred up in him by Grace’s presence could not be the priority. He looked at Jo, the person who would be most affected.

“If that’s what you want.”

“Thank you. I do,” Jo said, turning to the doctor. “We’ll keep her here at Baronsford until she has regained her strength.”

“Very good,” Namby said. “Then I’ll check back in a few days, unless you need me sooner.”

Before walking through the house to his study, Hugh listened to the doctor giving instructions to Jo about what to do and look for while caring for Grace.

Namby had mentioned his wife’s “projects.” Jo needed them, as well. Dividing her time between Baronsford, Melbury Hall in Hertfordshire, and the townhouse in London, she was devoted to the family. But for her entire adult life, she’d kept herself occupied with causes she felt were important, especially since the debacle of her broken engagement fifteen years ago. The tower house charity that she ran with Walter’s wife was an example of it.

Perhaps having Grace stay at Baronsford would be a good thing for Jo too, for however long she needed to recover.

In his study, Hugh found the orderly stack of papers on his desk waiting for him. His secretary was a good man for prioritizing items requiring his attention. Invitations for the upcoming annual ball needed to be sent out this week, and the list of guests was on top of the pile.

Picking up the list, Hugh fought down his annoyance, in spite of the fact that he knew how important the ball was for the family and for the community. Still, he frowned at his mother’s gentle insistence that his name should be on the invitation as host, rather than that of the earl and countess. He understood her motivation. Since he returned from the wars, she’d been striving to keep him involved and make him feel a sense of ownership of Baronsford.

He sighed in resignation. The ball was a family tradition, and he’d once again do what he must. He called for his man.

The secretary appeared, spectacles in hand. “Yes, m’lord?”

“The list is fine. Send the invitations.”

As he was about to hand off the paper, however, a name on the list caught his attention.

Melfort.

He paused, a flash of temper heating his face.

“Wait.” He stabbed the list with his finger. “Why is this name included?”

The young man stared at the paper in confusion. “I’m sorry, m’lord. Sir John Melfort has recently purchased Highfield Hall. He and Lady Melfort are currently in residence. I assumed that you’d wish to include them.”

“You assumed incorrectly,” Hugh said sharply. He reined in his temper, realizing that his secretary had no knowledge of the history between the Penningtons and the Melforts. “Take them off.”

“Of course. Immediately.” The young man took the list, eager to escape the room.

Hugh called to him as he reached the door. “Wait. Has my sister seen the guest list?”

“No, m’lord. Lady Jo has been too busy. She requested that you approve the invitations.”

“Good. Keep it that way. And don’t mention any of this to her.”

Jo hadn’t seen Melfort’s brother Wynne in fifteen years, and the last thing Hugh wanted was to hurt her by reopening old wounds.

No, the Melforts were not invited at Baronsford. Not this month. Not ever.