Highland Heat

by Jennifer Haymore

  Highland Heat is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Haymore

  Excerpt from Highland Awakening by Jennifer Haymore copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Haymore

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Highland Awakening by Jennifer Haymore. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101965269

  Cover design: Seductive Designs

  Cover photograph: Kim Killion/Hot Damn Stock (couple)

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Jennifer Haymore

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Highland Awakening

  Chapter 1

  JUNE 19, 1815

  THE WATERLOO BATTLEFIELD

  Lady Grace Carrington’s chest tightened as she gazed at the brutal destruction laid out before her. In her wildest dreams, she’d never imagined such horrors possible. Never.

  She needed to do something. Her fingers tingled with the need to help. She couldn’t stay idle while so many men suffered.

  She walked forward, picking her way carefully across the trampled battlefield. She didn’t bother lifting her skirts—there would be no point to it. She’d be muddied from head to toe soon enough.

  Bodies lay everywhere, though not so many as earlier this morning, when one could hardly set a foot down without landing on some poor, unsuspecting corpse’s limb. Men darted this way and that, and carts moved on the fringes, filled to the brim with lifeless men. Her back stiff with resolution, Grace headed to the middle of the field, where the carnage was at its thickest.

  She knelt by countless bodies, lowering her head to see if a breath might whisper over her ear. There was nothing but ruthless, heart-wrenching stillness. Grace found herself looking up toward the gray sky again and again, trying to gather her strength. Witnessing this was nothing to what these poor men had gone through. If they could suffer through such a nightmare, then she could suffer through the aftermath.

  She knelt beside a man, this one from one of the Highland regiments, judging by the uniform he wore—humble bonnet, kilt, cross belts, and stockings. There wasn’t a speck of blood visible on him. If it weren’t for all the dirt and grime coating his uniform and skin, she might’ve thought he had lain upon the grass in peaceful repose.

  Bending down, she placed her ear to his lips. Nothing. She stayed longer than usual, listening for any sound of breath. Finally, she rose, looking down at the man—no, he was a mere boy, much younger than her twenty-three years.

  Maybe he’d been wounded in the back. She couldn’t bring herself to turn him over to find out. But there was no doubt that this poor soldier had perished, along with so many others. Her breath caught, and she bent her head and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting as hard as she could against the tears that pushed behind her lids.

  “Ma’am?”

  She jumped back in surprise, her head jerking up. Her heel came down on uneven ground—or something lying upon the ground—and she stumbled backward, her arms windmilling as she fought to stay upright.

  It was no use. She fell, hard, on her backside.

  On someone. A fact made immediately obvious by the oomph of breath released from the poor man she’d stumbled onto.

  She scrambled off his body, blushing furiously, for her bottom had landed directly upon his pelvis.

  “Oh, I am so sorry, sir…I am so clumsy…Please forgive me…” Her words died away as, on her hands and knees in the mud, she finally caught sight of the man’s face. She blinked, hard, several times, and sucked in a breath.

  He was covered—absolutely covered—in blood and mud. All she could see was the blue-green of his eyes, so light they looked like shimmering aquamarine gems, bright against the crusting dark red-brown.

  “Are you injured?” she asked. Even though she knew he must be—otherwise he would not be lying here in the middle of a battlefield on the day after the battle that would surely go down in history as one of the bloodiest.

  He smiled gently, his teeth stark white against his cracked, muddy lips. “Nay. You didna hurt me. ’Tis naught to worry over.”

  His Scottish brogue rolled down her spine. Goodness, he was trying to make her feel better for stumbling, when he was clearly terribly injured and she’d tumbled directly onto him.

  She bent closer to him, laying her hands flat in the mud. “Do you know where you are, sir?”

  He turned his head away from her, looking this way and that, then fixed his gaze back on her. She noted that he moved only his head—his body had remained perfectly still—and all sorts of terrible scenarios of his possible injuries rolled about in her head. She glanced around, looking for someone who might be able to help, but there was no one close.

  “I’d be in a meadow of some sort, I expect,” he informed her after finishing his perusal.

  “You are indeed in a meadow. Do you recall the battle?”

  He frowned, mud cracking as his brow furrowed. “The battle…” He turned his face up to the gloomy sky, his eyes going cloudy and unfocused. He was silent, and very still, for a long moment. Finally, he murmured, “Aye. I do remember the battle.”

  Grace nodded. “That’s good.” Or maybe not so good. She was quite sure she wouldn’t want to remember such a thing.

  “Who was the victor?” he asked, still looking up at the sky, his voice rasping.

  “Wellington was. We were.”

  He sighed heavily. “Are ye certain of that?”

  “The war is over. Bonaparte is gone, and for good this time.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. Thank God, indeed.

  “Is it morning?” He turned his head to look at her, confusion written on his features. “Dinna tell me I slept through the battle.”

  “I highly doubt you slept through the battle. Did you just awaken?”

  “Aye. I heard movement, and I opened my eyes and saw ye standing there like a vision.” He laughed softly. “I thought I was still dreaming for a wee bit of time, and it was a dream I’d no desire to wake from.”

  Her face burned with pleasure—and embarrassment. She’d never been compared to a pleasant dream before.

  “But then…” His eyes flickered
toward the young soldier. “I saw that ye were crouchin’ over Private McGee…and I knew it was real.” He hesitated. “McGee is gone?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I could find no sign of life in him.”

  “As I thought,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “How many did we lose?”

  “I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “But…from what I have seen, it is quite bad.” There was no reason to lie to him—as soon as he sat up and saw the desolation over the trampled meadow grasses, he’d know the truth.

  “I must tell you, though,” she said, “it is quite late in the morning, and I believe you must have been unconscious most of the night.”

  He blinked at her. “Late morning?”

  She chewed on her lip for a moment. “The men are already preparing to march. You must rejoin your regiment, sir.” If he was able, that was. If his injuries weren’t too severe. If he wasn’t dying…”

  “March? Where to?”

  “Paris.”

  “We really were victorious, then,” he said in wonder.

  She nodded, then ventured tentatively, “Do you think you might be able to sit up?”

  He smiled again. Good heavens, that smile was so brilliant she could almost feel the warmth of the absent sun washing across her face. The sensation sent a bolt of heat right through her belly. He spoke softly. “Ye must think me a mad barbarian, fine English lady that you are.”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. Though she had to admit, this was not how she usually met strange men. Usually, she was introduced formally by her father, the Earl of Norsey, or an older member of the aristocracy who was well acquainted with both her and the man in question.

  Never had she met a man by falling onto his pelvis. In fact, a few days ago she would have considered the idea of meeting a man in such a way absolutely outlandish. She grinned and held her muddy hands, palms out, to the soldier. “In fact, I’m rather a hoyden.”

  It was a bit of a lie. Though she felt like a hoyden at the moment, she’d never truly been one. That description was reserved for her sister, Claire, who truly had been a hellion when they were girls. Grace was the calm and reserved elder sister, always thinking through her actions before carrying them out.

  Right now, though, her body was warm and her heart was racing, and she’d happily roll around in the mud and squeal like a pig if it would help this man…and make him smile at her again.

  But that wasn’t her…was it? No. Certainly not.

  Forcing herself into her usual placid calm, she said, “We must leave this terrible place. Can you rise? If not, I shall call for a stretcher—”

  He reached out and gripped her arm, the first movement he’d made. His fingers curled around her forearm and squeezed tight. “Nay. I am able.” He hesitated. “I think.”

  He released her arm and rolled to his side, propping himself on his elbow. His other arm, his left one, dangled limply. He gritted his teeth, and his supporting arm shook with exertion. Grace just watched, feeling helpless.

  He finally managed to rise to a seated position. He sat, head bowed, his breaths harsh, his bloodied left arm still limp at his side.

  She touched his shoulder. “What is it, sir? Where are you hurt?”

  “ ’Tis nothing.”

  She arched a brow at him. “I cannot help you if you refuse to inform me the nature of your injuries.”

  “Aye, well, I canna argue that logic, can I?” That smile again. “What is your name, lass?”

  “Grace,” she said instantly, then blinked. She’d never been so forward. But there was no one here to introduce her as Lady Grace Carrington, elder daughter of the Earl of Norsey, so what did it matter?

  “I’m Duncan,” he told her. “Sergeant Duncan Mackenzie.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Mackenzie.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” he said. “But if I’m to call you Grace, ye must call me Duncan.”

  “Very well…Duncan.” Her face grew even hotter. Today was a day of firsts in about a thousand different ways. Of course she’d never addressed a man by his given name before. She breathed through the shaky feeling this gave her. Everything was new and different and odd. Frightening and eye-opening and terrible and wonderful, all at the same time. She had spent her entire life moving between the earl’s seat in Kent and their London home, always supervised and chaperoned, rarely allowed outside an older adult’s line of vision. She had been utterly sheltered.

  There was an almost overwhelming freedom to this.

  “Tell me what ails you,” she said quietly. “I want to help.”

  Duncan’s smile twisted into a slight frown as he turned to look down at his left arm. “I canna seem to move my arm.”

  She nodded. She had been able to tell that much from the way it hung, not to mention the torn sleeve of his coat and the dried blood caking the fabric. “Is there anything else?”

  He twisted his torso slowly, experimentally, and moved his legs. “Nay. ’Tis a mass of aches and pains, but naught is truly amiss.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye. I canna understand why I was unconscious for so long…”

  “Maybe from loss of blood,” she suggested. “Or perhaps from pain? Captain Stirling said that oftentimes the jolt of an initial pain becomes so great that a man is no longer able to remain conscious.”

  “Captain Stirling? He’s well, then?”

  “Yes. He is…” She hesitated. How could she explain the distant look in the captain’s eyes? The way his gaze grew cloudy when he moved it over the battlefield? She’d no idea of the extent of the injuries deep inside Captain Stirling. Perhaps it was best to speak only of his outward physical health. “He suffered no injury in the battle.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Duncan frowned down at his arm. “The pain doesna seem that severe.”

  She hoped that didn’t mean it was numb. She’d been near the battlefield for half a day, and that was long enough for her to learn that numb limbs signaled danger. She swallowed over the lump in her throat, and then she noticed he was giving her an odd look. “What’s a proper English lady like you doing in this godforsaken place?”

  “My sister is one of the officers’ wives. I’ve come as her companion.” She and Claire had only arrived on the Continent last night. Claire had been estranged from her husband, Major Sir Robert Campbell, for almost a year, but when it struck her that he might lose his life in the upcoming campaign, she’d decided at the very last minute to rush to Flanders to see if they could reconcile before the battle. Of course, the battle had already been decided by the time Grace and Claire had driven here from Ostend this morning. They’d found the major alive, but he hadn’t yet awakened from the injuries he’d sustained.

  Grace brushed her hands off and stood. “Here,” she said to Duncan, reaching down, “I’ll help you.”

  He looked up at her, his gaze raking from her face down to her knees then back up again. Everywhere he looked, her skin tingled behind all the layers of fabric.

  “Nay,” he announced.

  She cocked a brow. “Nay? You don’t wish for me to help you?”

  “I’ll be muddying that bonny dress o’ yours, and I dinna want to do that.”

  She gave an unladylike snort of laughter. “Nonsense. This dress is weighted down by half a stone of mud already. A little more will hardly make a difference.”

  “You’re a delicate wee slip of a lass,” he argued further. “I’ll be crushing you.”

  Another laugh burst out of her. She’d always been tall and gangly; so much so that the ton whispered that there was no gentleman in London who would not feel dwarfed by her excessive height. “I’m about as far from a delicate slip of a lass as a giraffe is from a gazelle.”

  He frowned. “Ye misjudge yourself, surely.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Now, enough of this. Come. Let me help you.” She knelt and wrapped an arm around him. They both strained and struggled, but she finally managed
to get Duncan to a standing position, both of them breathing heavily.

  Grace’s face burned not only from exertion, but from touching a male in such an intimate way. She glanced up at him under her lashes. He was a large man—indeed he possessed a thick, muscular body and his stature was so tall that Grace had the rare pleasure of needing to look up to study his face. His lips were pressed together, and his jaw was tight—from pain, no doubt—but he didn’t complain.

  His gaze searched the battlefield. “Jesus Christ in heaven,” he murmured in a gruff voice.

  “I know. It’s terrible.” She swallowed hard and pointed toward the edge of the field. “Do you see that wagon by those trees? It’ll take us to the hospital, where we can find a doctor to look at your arm.”

  He glanced down at his dangling arm as if he’d forgotten it.

  “Oh. Aye,” he said distractedly as she began to lead him across the field, noting that he walked with a bit of a limp, though it wasn’t too bad. He might have strained something or suffered a minor blow. But she’d ask the doctor to look at that as well.

  Duncan was silent as they walked, his expression grim. Either he was in terrible pain or lost in the truth of the destruction surrounding them and his own memories of the battle. She didn’t press him.

  Captain Stirling stood up ahead, near the wagon, and she felt Duncan stiffening as he approached his superior. When the captain recognized Duncan, he didn’t smile, but relief crossed his face.

  “Sergeant.” His eyes scanned over Duncan, hesitating over the dangling arm before moving to his face. “I thought we’d lost you.”

  “Nay,” Duncan replied soberly. “Not yet.”

  For the first time, Grace realized that Duncan’s green-and-yellow kilt matched the captain’s. She’d not noticed before because the fabric had been hardly visible beneath all the mud. They were in the same regiment, then, the 92nd Regiment of the Gordon Highlanders. The regiment now commanded by her brother-in-law, who still lay on a bed in Waterloo Village, unconscious.