The Lord’s Highland Temptation

Chapter Three (#u100f8326-e205-527c-a5dd-c89733f2fcb1)

Chapter Four (#u4ce999e2-f8eb-5410-8445-91fc99885e3b)

Chapter Five (#u1f1f870e-4305-57e5-85f3-e427df29906e)

Chapter Six (#u67be36b5-332f-516e-b1d7-e0701b74b1d1)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)

Scotland—September 1816

The thundering of a thousand horses’ hooves, the roar of the charge, the screams of the injured pounded across Lucas Johns-Ives’s brain. He slashed at the French soldiers, so many caught off guard by the British cavalry, easy prey for their sabres. The charge had begun in glory, but now it was slaughter—blood everywhere, men crying out in agony, horses falling.

Dimly, the sound of a bugle reached Lucas’s ears. Ta-ta-ta. Ta-ta-ta. Over and over. The signal to retreat. They’d ridden far enough. Done enough. Killed enough. Time to retreat.

Where was Bradleigh?

Lucas searched for his brother and spied him still waving his sword, his eyes bulging, a maniacal grimace on his face. He’d been so angry at Bradleigh, angry enough to refuse to ride next to him. Let his brother fight on his own for once.

But now Lucas shouted in a voice thick with panic, ‘Bradleigh! Bradleigh! Retreat! We’ve ridden too far. Bradleigh!’

From the corner of his eye, Lucas saw a thousand French cavalry on fresh horses galloping closer, swords drawn.

His brother took no heed.

‘Bradleigh! Bradleigh!’

Bradleigh impaled a blue-coated French soldier through the neck, pulled back his sword, dripping with the man’s blood. He laughed like a madman.

Lucas spurred his horse to catch up to him. He’d pull his brother out of danger, just as he’d promised their father. Drag him back to the Allied lines. He’d save Bradleigh from himself.

He was almost there, almost at his brother’s side, but then suddenly a French cuirassier on a huge black horse roared between them. Lucas pulled on his horse’s reins to avoid crashing into the man and beast. The cuirassier charged to his brother, raised his sword and ran it through his brother’s chest.

‘No!’ Lucas cried as his brother’s blood spurted and his body fell from his horse. ‘No!’

* * *

‘I love the stone circle.’ The melodic voice of a young girl broke into Lucas’s reverie, melting away the sounds and sights of the battle.

The girlish voice laughed. ‘Remember how we played here?’

Lucas shook his head. It could not be. This was Belgium, was it not? Where was the battle? Where was his brother?

Suddenly the air smelled of wet grass and a breeze cooled his burning skin. He’d been walking, he remembered. He’d felt light-headed and queasy—nothing another bottle of fine Scottish whisky couldn’t cure. Had the drink caused the dream? Was this a dream? If so, which was the dream: the battle or the melodic voice?

‘That was when we were mere children,’ another voice answered. A boy’s voice this time. ‘Or at least when I was a child. You still are one.’

‘I am not,’ the girl protested. ‘Fourteen is not a child.’

‘Ha!’ the boy responded. ‘Wait until you are sixteen. Then you will know fourteen is a child.’

The girl harrumphed. ‘Oh, yes. You are so grown up.’ Her voice changed. ‘Niven, look! There is a man in the circle.’

‘Where?’ he answered.

‘There. On the ground beneath one of the larger stones.’

Lucas heard them move closer.

‘Who is it?’ the boy asked.