Page 1 of Romancing the Scot
Chapter 1
Antwerp
May 1817
For the bird that struggles to fly, the Lord finds a low branch.
How many times had those words come back to Grace in her eight and twenty years of life? It had to be true. How else would she have been able to live without a mother or a permanent home, or siblings, or aunts or uncles or cousins? She’d never had any real family to call her own beyond this father who once stood tall and strong as an oak. And now even he was withering quickly before her eyes.
“Damn this blasted leg.”
Grace paused from wrapping the wound and looked up at Daniel Ware. His blue Irish eyes were glazed with pain. Two years had passed since he’d been badly injured leading his regiment of dragoons against the English at Waterloo, where so many innocent lives had been wasted. He’d lived, as tens of thousands had not. But the colonel’s leg had never been treated properly, and his wound had continued to fester. He’d fought it—and ignored it—for a long time, but on this journey back from America, infection had again begun to spread. The knee and the entire lower leg were now bloated and discolored.
“Where is our bloody carriage? We must continue on to Brussels. I have no desire to tarry here.”
“The carriage is coming with the trunks from the ship,” she assured him, motioning to the valet to give her father another dose of the laudanum.
“This is taking too bloody long.” The colonel tried to stand, but sank back in the chair.
“Father, you must sit still and let me finish.” Grace worked hurriedly to bind the leg.
Traveling through rough seas and frequent rain squalls, the journey from America had been grueling, to say the least. Their cabin—one of only twenty on the ship—offered far more comfort than steerage, where poorer travelers huddled together in the darkness and the damp. But her father had still suffered greatly. He’d only been able to leave their room once, carried in his chair by two manservants to the deck. Grace looked after him while he was awake, but whenever he slept, she’d escaped to the deck. There, even in bad weather, she found respite and occasional conversation with fellow travelers.
“This medicine is too weak,” the colonel complained. “I need more.”
Grace shook her head and gestured to the valet to put the bottle away.
“You know the laudanum requires several minutes to take effect. I’ve given you two teaspoons, and that’s all you can take.”
“I’ll have it, by God!” he snapped.
“You won’t,” she replied. “Don’t doubt me, Father. You must give it time to work.”
Before preparing the concoction of opium and alcohol herself in Philadelphia, Grace had read every medical treatise she could get her hands on. She had the unique ability to recall every word she read; she could quote the dosages verbatim. She knew how strong the medicine was and how to use it. And she’d packed enough bottles in their trunks to last until they reached Brussels.
“Think of something else,” she said more gently.
Grace knew he had plenty to occupy his mind, aside from his own health. Although Daniel Ware didn’t speak of it, he was carrying a message from Joseph Bonaparte to his wife, Julie, in Brussels. Since the emperor had been imprisoned on St. Helena, his brother—the former king of Naples and Spain—had been living in America in the guise of the Count of Survilliers. Messages went back and forth all the time between those still loyal to the Bonaparte family.
He frowned fiercely at her. “So where’s the blasted carriage?”
She smiled back at him. “That’s my courageous father.”
The doctors in Philadelphia had offered no hope for recovery. They told her that his leg should have been amputated immediately after Waterloo. That was the only thing that could have saved his life. Tough and obstinate, the colonel wouldn’t allow it then. And now they both knew it was too late.
They had half a day’s carriage ride remaining to reach Brussels, and Grace knew it would be hell for him. She pulled the stocking up over the dressing. She touched her father’s brow. His skin was clammy and hot to the touch, and his pulse was too quick. The fever had been growing worse for days. She’d questioned his decision to continue on immediately after arriving in port, but he’d been adamant. She feared for him trying to manage this final stage of the journey.
A fist tightened around her heart, but Grace stubbornly blinked back tears. She didn’t want to lose him. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. But she couldn’t think about herself right now. She had to be strong for him.
An unsteady hand reached out and he touched a strand of her hair. “Even in these dingy rooms, your hair glows like gold,” he said gently. “You’ve come to look so much like your mother.”
It had been so many years since Janet Macpherson passed away. Grace had no memory of her. But in recent months, as the wound continued to slice away at her father’s vitality, he talked of her more often.
“Have all our things been conveyed from the ship?” His words slurred as the laudanum started to take effect. She was glad of it. There was no point in him suffering needlessly.
“I’ve taken care of it.”
“Of course,” the colonel said. “You manage everything so well. What a fine officer you would have made.”
