by Erin Grace
He glanced back at Liam, then gently threw the object at Father Martin's feet. As it landed, a glimpse of gold shone against the green grass.
"Ewan, no!"
Ellie's hand shot out, but Father Martin hauled her back.
The priest's eyes shone with greed, as lightning began to strike all around. The fool was going to try and go to the future.
His mother was there.
"Liam, guide our friend to the center of the stones, and wait for me there. Hurry about it now, I dinna have much time." As Ewan made his way to a small space amongst a scattering of white rock, he held his breath. The priest stepped forward, Ellie still in his grasp, and made her pick up the amulet from the ground.
"You have nae idea how long I've been waiting for this, Ewan. Ever since your mother disappeared. But now it is ma turn to travel. And, who knows, perhaps I might see dear Margot again?"
He fist clenched. “Like Hell, you bastard.”
"Ewan." Ellie gazed at the amulet, then at him. He knew what she was thinking. "How did you find all the pieces? Your father scattered them—"
"I watched where they were hidden, Ellie, and I dug them up. Father Martin said that if I dinna come with the complete amulet, he would kill you."
She nodded and gave him a weak smile, her pretty face pale and frightened. Christ, what he wouldn't give to hold her.
"Right." The priest looked up into the raging storm above, then at Ewan. "Take the golden ring from your wife."
"Why?"
"You stupid fool. You have the power in your veins, just like your mother, only you’re too daft to realize it. Without another, I'm nae powerful enough to travel."
He reached out and took the amulet from Ellie's shaking hands, as Liam circled the three of them slowly, dagger ready.
"Take the woman, Liam. Hold her until the deed is done."
Ewan's anger surged, as Liam grabbed hold of Ellie's waist and held her against him.
"But what of ma lands? You promised, old man? I haven’t spent all this time at your beck and call for nothing."
Father Martin knelt down before Ewan in the pelting rain. The warrior held the halo of gold above the priest's head like he'd seen his mother do.
"The MacKinnon laird will soon be dead, Liam. And Father Gregory is in possession of several letters stating my word to the effect that Ewan was responsible for the poisoning of Laird MacTavish. As I promised, Keep MacKinnon and all within will soon be yours."
A snarl crept to Ewan's lips, as he looked down upon the man responsible for twenty years of misery, hardship and murder.
"I'll see you in Hell first!"
Two bolts of lightning struck close by, the intense heat searing the side of Ewan's thigh. A third hit in front of him, engulfing his body in a familiar brilliant light that pulsated through every nerve and shot him back across the clearing.
Dazed and face down in the dirt, Ewan tried to pick himself up, but felt the sheer agony of each and every muscle wanting to collapse at once.
What had he done?
He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, only to find silvery speckles dancing before them. He couldn't see.
"Ellie?" Crawling onto his side, he mustered every ounce of his strength, and forced himself to stand.
He shook his head, the sound of bells still ringing in his ears. As he stumbled forward, his vision began to clear, and the stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils.
Father Martin.
In a burning mass on the ground before him, lay the charred remains of the damnable priest. Justice had finally been done.
He spat on the man, then turned to find his wife.
A tiny figure in cream and plaid lay curled up on the ground near the altar. With feet of clay, he stumbled toward her inert body. Pangs of fear and anger took hold of his chest, as a thousand icy needles pierced his heart.
She can't be . . . .
A familiar figure moved into his path.
He reached for his sword, but it was gone. Liam had taken it from him when he'd arrive. No matter. He'd kill the traitor with his bare hands.
"Do you really think I'd have let the Father go without some kind of guarantee?" Ewan stopped and glanced at Ellie's pale face. Her lips had turned blue, and there were dark circles under eyes.
"Your pretty wife will die without a special tonic. Aye, but the Father was clever, was he not? His blade was tipped with a slow poison, one that will send her into a permanent sleep, unless I get her the remedy soon."
Ewan struck out and grabbed his cousin by the throat. "Nae, you bastard. I will take nae more." With strength dredged up the from the darkest part of his soul, the bones in his lecherous cousin's neck cracked one by one beneath his fingers, until the wretch's lifeless form hung limp within his vice-like grip.
Without an ounce of emotion, Ewan let his cousin's body drop to the ground.
Dropping to his knees, he gently scooped up his love, held her close, and went in search of his horse. "Stay with me, Ellie. I won’t let you die. You can’t go, do ye hear me? I love you."
Six weeks later...
* * *
"What a horrible headache."
Ewan rolled over and pulled his complaining wife close. "How are you feeling, love?"
Aye, how he loved the sound of her voice—whining or not.
"Like a train wreck—never mind." She reached over and grasped a mug of cool water. "Do you think this morning sickness will ever end? It's turned into morning, day, and dead of night sickness."
He placed a hand on her swollen belly and flashed a wicked smile. He'd never thought a pregnant woman could be so damn sexy.
"Hah. Don't even think about it. You've gotten me into enough trouble as it is."
Ignoring her, he hovered above her half naked body and leaned in for a tender kiss. "What would I do without you?"
"I dread to think."
She reached up and touched his cheek, as he began to nuzzle her neck. "I'm serious. You never did tell me exactly what happened when you rescued me from Liam and Father Martin."
With a sigh, he pulled away and lay on his side, his head propped up on a pillow. "I've told you before, the lightning struck the old priest, but instead of sending him through time, he was killed instantly."
"But why didn't it work?
He reached out and drew a little circle around her budding nipple. Damn, but he could almost taste it.
"When Father Martin demanded I bring him the amulet, I realized that I'd left ma piece in that future. So, I had ma blacksmith melt down some of the family gold to make a false piece to fit. I counted on him not noticing."
She nodded and smacked his roving hand away.
"I guess in all eagerness to make the lightning strike, he never bothered to take a closer look. I'm just thankful you found someone else who knew enough about herbs to make me a cure for the poison. There would be few people I'm sure who'd have such a detailed knowledge. And the fact your father is now well enough to walk around is a miracle. What did you say the healers name was again? I'll have to thank her one day."
He glanced over at his plaid sprawled across a small wooden chair. A tiny glint of gold peeked out from beneath the hem.
He smiled. "I'm nae certain when she may be back in our lands, but when she does I will be sure to tell you."
"Good. The main thing is we are together." She reached up and drew him down for a soft, sweet kiss. "I love you, Ewan MacKinnon."
"And I love you, Ellie." He brushed his lips over hers, then moved down and placed a warm kiss upon her stomach. "You will nae ever be without me again, I promise . . . both of you."
Thank you for reading this book.
Erin hopes you enjoyed it and would appreciate your review.
If you would like to find out about more of Erin’s titles, you can find her at ...
Erin’s Website
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Please join her Reader Group Newsletter for a Bonus FREE read and exclusive content each month!
> Also by Erin Grace
Time-slip Romance:
From The Ashes
Love in Ruins
Historical Romance:
The Viscount’s Christmas Miracle
Highwayman’s Hostage
The Pirate’s Secret Stowaway
The Anvil Brides:
Book One: The Laird’s Troubled Bride
Book Two: The Laird's Stolen Bride
Book Three: The Laird's Reluctant Bride (coming soon)
Paranormal / Fantasy
Fire of My Heart
Blind Devotion (novella)
Look out for Erin’s next series, The Scandalous Lords:
Prologue: Before They Were Lords is an exclusive free read when you join her Reader Group Newsletter
You can find these titles
(and more coming soon!) right here.
About the Author
Erin Grace's love of collecting and reproducing antique lace led to a deep connection with the past. She felt every snippet of the precious fabric held a unique story-one Erin longed to tell.
But, as no two pieces of lace are the same, neither are Erin's stories. Escaping from her 'real world' of sales and marketing, she immerses herself in unfolding tales of dire circumstance, brave heroines, unscrupulous villains and, of course, passionate hot-blooded men.
When not writing, Erin indulges in her love of home-style food by teaching her children to cook. Erin lives with her husband and three sons in the beautiful Blue Mountains of Australia.
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You can find out more about Erin on her website
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Turn the page to read the first chapter of Love in Ruins.
Fire of My Heart
Chapter One
Banth Manor, Ireland, 1759
Battle cries echoed along with the clash of steel throughout the green, mist filled valley of Shaughnessy. Barely past dawn, the early summer sun shed streaks of orange light upon the tragic scene unfolding below Lord Seamus Donegal, Fourth Viscount Banth.
The entire estate had been thrown into chaos. People grabbed what little possessions they could before fleeing the oncoming tirade. Stumbling over her skirts, a woman clutching a crying babe dragged another child toward the safety of the woods. A sea of armed warriors flowed over the ancient stone walls that formed the border of Donegal lands, burning and destroying thatched roofed cottages in their path.
Turning his back on the hellish scene, he bade a hurried farewell to his frantic wife and children then bundled them into a waiting carriage. And though the words he’d spoken were filled with reassurance, a part of him suspected he might never see them again.
As the buggy disappeared into the forest, a heavy sigh escaped him. “At least they’re safe and away from this madness.” Glancing upward, he closed his eyes. “Pray the saints will be watching over them.”
He’d never wanted to believe his neighbor, Lord O’Connell, would carry out his threats. Not now, after so many years. Nothing would be gained from such misguided revenge anointed with the blood of innocents.
Removing his sword from its sheath, he turned to the few guards surrounding him. “Get everyone away from here as fast as you can, including yourselves. There is nothing more to be gained by staying.”
In the distance, a tall menacing figure strode through the lower fields, headed toward the house.
Damn.
“But, my lord--” one of the men tried to protest.
“I said to get them away.” Frustrated, he shook his head and placed his hand on the shoulder of the young man willing to give his life for him. No. He didn’t want any more blood spilled in his name. “They are farmers for God’s sake, your friends, your family…not soldiers. If they stay it would be a blood bath and nothing more. The quarrel lies with me, not them. Now go!”
He turned without another word and strode into the hall. Normally filled with torches and a welcoming fire blazing in the enormous hearth, the entrance of Banth Manor was dark and cold, eerily silent. Entering a room off the grand hall, he sat down at an old oak desk and placed his sword beside him. The chamber he’d so often shared with his father gave him little comfort now from the tirade sweeping his land. So many memories were etched into the ancient walls of that room from generations of Donegals. And so many questions left unanswered. Whatever his destiny, he’d meet it head-on.
He wasn’t going to run.
Cork, Ireland, 2018
The speaker system crackled into life. “Ladies and gentlemen, European Airways would like to welcome you to Cork International Airport. The pilot and crew thank you for choosing to fly with us. Please wait until the aircraft has come to a complete stop before moving about the cabin.”
Bloody hell. After twenty-seven hours of flying in sardine cans, she’d be lucky to ever be able to move again. To ease her stiff neck, Ellen Quinn tried to stretch her aching limbs. A passenger sitting in the window seat next to her stood and pushed past her to the aisle.
“You’re welcome.” She muttered a curse under her breath as the man proceeded to grab his baggage from the overhead locker. Swinging down, his briefcase narrowly missed her head. She glared, wanted to give the inconsiderate sod a piece of her mind, but it wasn’t worth the effort.
No wonder she preferred to work with plants.
Her mood wasn’t helped either by the ankle cramps that had plagued her since the connecting flight at Heathrow Airport, the typical tasteless ‘airline’ food, and the grumpy old man next to her who’d snored like a bear in hibernation and smelled just as bad.
Welcome to Ireland.
She stood, gathered her carry-on and waited to leave the plane. Another two hours away Banth Manor awaited, which her very distant cousin, Lord Michael Donegal, tenth Viscount Banth, had described as an impressive estate shrouded in history.
Mystery, more like.
Not one to leave matters to chance, she’d spent several days researching the property on the internet, hoping to gain some insight into the birthplace of her ancestors. Nothing. Not even a map on how to get there. Hard to believe any place on the planet could escape the clutches of the worldwide web. Either way, she would see it for herself soon enough. And have a long hot bath accompanied by a generous glass of red wine.
Oh, what bliss.
As she collected her bag from the crowded luggage carousel and passed through customs, a twinge of guilt nudged her conscience. Why was she complaining? After all, her trip had been a gift, or more precisely a bequest from her great-aunt Kathleen.
Though travelling had never been one of her favorite pastimes, the will had stated she’d receive an open return ticket to Ireland and the amount of five thousand pounds in spending money.
How could she say no?
But when the lawyer had given her the ticket, cold shivers raced along her spine. Printed with her name, Ellen Quinn, her Great-aunt Kathleen had purchased the fare the day before she’d died, as if the dear woman had known her time had come. Eerie, perhaps, yet she shouldn’t be surprised. Her aunt always had a sixth sense about such matters, knowing when to call the moment problems arose, and you never could surprise her on her birthday.
Even the family ancestry had become somewhat of a mystery.
Aunt Kathleen had visited Ireland many times during her life to compile the family tree, but never brought back a single souvenir. Not even a postcard or photograph.
Some family tree.
And, now it was her turn. She couldn’t go back empty handed.
Problem was, what little information her aunt’s papers provided gave little detail about what to expect from her relations. Maybe her cousins in Ireland weren’t very close. If they were anything like her family back home in Australia, it was strictly weddings and funerals only.
Or, perhaps old age had something to do with the lack of information Kathleen had gathered. She’d never considered her aunt incompetent, but once when she’d given her a disposable camera to take som
e photos, not only did she forget to, she lost the camera. Or so she’d said.
For her, the timing for the trip couldn’t have been better. She needed to put some distance between her and Bryant, her latest relationship disaster.
The Plant Queen had struck again.
As a taxi pulled up to the rank, she retrieved a crumpled note from her pocket. The only information her aunt had left. The scrawl contained a brief list of eccentric relatives, one of whom apparently swatted imaginary flies with a napkin whilst he ate lunch.
The driver got out of his cab and opened the passenger door. “Where can I take you to, miss?”
His chirpy Irish accent made her smile, and she tucked the note back into her pocket. “Banth Manor, Shaughnessy Valley, please.”
She was on her way.
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