PROLOGUE
Jacobite Rising, 1715
“Caelan!” Duncan roared at the sight of his friend’s body hitting the ground. Storming forward, his broadsword carved a path through the English soldiers bearing down on him. He itched, more than anything, to reach the gloating commander. He stood over the body of Caelan, not only his ally but one of Clan Campbell’s greatest warriors. Now his blood tainted the earth.
Around them, several bodies gave up the fight and hugged the ground, bearing different fatal wounds. Screams of varying degrees pierced the air. Caelan’s chest trembled to produce his last breath.
“Move!” Duncan bellowed at a fellow warrior who lurched to block his path in order to protect his friend. Seeing the blistering fury in Duncan’s charcoal eyes, he fled.
As all wars, this war filled Duncan with anger. Ironically, it started in a pursuit of peace and the restoration of King James. His sword had become an extension of his hands since the start of the Jacobite Rebellion. Blaedy greedy English. If only they would stick to their lands. But no, they had to invade Clan Campbell’s lands. They were Clan Hay’s biggest allies and there was no way Duncan, the heir of Laird Hay himself, would stand by and watch their massacre. He would rather die than let the English scum encroach on what was rightfully theirs. Today, it was Clan Campbell, tomorrow it might be his own.
He arrived at the clearing, where only two soldiers stood, with Caelan’s twitching body at their feet. With the English commander in his sight, Duncan slashed his sword e, eliminating the man’s last protection. Just as he prepared to cover the space between them, another Englishman, pierced a sword into the commander’s back.
Absolute shock washed over the man’s paling face as blood spurted from his mouth. Duncan glanced left and right, but there was no one else to witness the atrocity. Frozen in disbelief, he watched the commander fall to one knee. With effort, the wounded man turned to see the grinning face of his attacker, who laughed in his face. Duncan blinked to be certain that the other attacker was indeed part of the English troops. His gaze fell on what was sticking out of the commander’s back. It was asgian dubh, and its handle bore a distinct lion’s head crest.
Distaste, bitter as bile, rose within Duncan’s mouth. If there was one thing he despised more than the English, it was disloyalty. Briefly, he contemplated running after the worm who’d just murdered his commander. It would be a way to avenge Caelan’sdeath too. But as he took the first step, a hand gripped the tail of his kilt.Duncan peered down at the man he’d planned to kill just a few minutes prior. The one who’d murdered his comrade. Unreasonable pity suffused his heart. They had collided in a few battles and, despite being English, Dankworth was a man who fought with honor. Duncan had seen the travesty brought to some clans by the English, women and children left destitute. When this commander was involved, there was nothing of the sort. If his men acted beyond his wishes, they were considered war criminals and executed for harming civilians. The man did not deserve such a pitiful end.
As though he’d applied the last of his strength in drawing Duncan’s attention, his grip loosened, and he started to fall back. Duncan rushed to catch him before he hit the ground. Commander’s bloodshot eyes roved wildly, his mouth opening and closing. The words he was attempting to form got lost in the blood rushing down his jaw.
“’Tis all over now,” Duncan said in gruff tones. He swept his helmet off his head, shaking loose his ginger curls. It was his last respect to the honorable soldier. “Rest.” Duncan’s chest twisted with hate and pity.
The man shook his head and for just a second, something blazed in his eyes. Duncan decided to quit being the fool. He was the enemy. His betrayal by his fellow soldier was a problem in their ranks, not Duncan’s. Still, he couldn’t get his hands to release their hold on his shoulders. Nor could he tear his gaze away from the agony reflected in his suffering face.
Commander John’s lips moved faster, so that Duncan had to abandon his prickling conscience and lean closer.
“G…G…” he sputtered.
“Aye, good night,” Duncan completed though it was high noon.
“Gr…Grace…” the man spat, determination warring with his fading expression.
I dinnae think ye deserve grace, Duncan bit his inner lip from saying the words out loud. Instead, he nodded, bring his ear even closer to the weak lips. “Aye, grace.”
“Danger… help. Please.”
A whoosh of air blasted Duncan’s cheek and he knew, the commander had just exhaled for the last time. A cry rose from his left. He looked to see a hurdle of English soldiers, rushing to his side. In a last gesture of kindness and respect to another fighter, Duncan pressed his hands across the man’s open eyes, wishing him peace. He grabbed the hilt of his broadsword.
However, the commander’s weak grasp tugged at Duncan’s leg once more. But there was no time. Although the soldiers were upon him, his wound was severe. He would not survive it.
“Commander!” One of the men screamed, brandishing his weapon at Duncan. His cry was echoed by the others. “You killed him! You fucking brute!” Looking left and right, Duncan realizedthat he was indeed alone at this clearing. His comrades were in the thick of the battle. He took several steps back, held up his sword and widened his stance.
Aye, tis a war,Duncan thought, flashing an arrogant, come-hither grin at him. Still, it was dishonorable at best to claim a victory he didn’t earn.
He struck down the closest soldier, and two others in quick succession. “Him? nae!” None of them listened, as he’d expected. “However, I willnae hesitate to end ye all!” The old man’s dying words fled Duncan’s mind as he braved each attack with the anger exploding at his core.
Duncan fought his way out of their midst and rejoined with his warriors much later, but his mind stayed with the commander and his dying words. From a soldier, it could not be mere blathering.Grace…Duncan muttered a while after, as he rounded the number of survivals.Who is Grace?
CHAPTER ONE
Dankworth Residence
Two weeks after
“You’remyGrace. Granted by God, to be cherished and loved forever.”
Grace crushed her face into her pillow, drowning it in tears. Her body quivered as those words resounded in her head. Her father’s face, his wide beloved smile, his ever-welcoming arms, his kind voice, hiseverything.
Scarlett fever was not enough to tear her family apart. It grabbed her mother’s life when she was a mere five years old. A babe left in the care of her father. She could still recall her father’s grief for months. And as Grace grew, she knew why. It had not been easy for her parents to conceive her. When she finally came, everyone thought, surely, the mother could not carry her to term.
