Page 42 of Only By Grace
Flynn’s lips curled and his finger tightened on the pistol’s trigger, and for an agonizing moment, time seemed to stand still. He should never have trusted Flynn to fight like a gentleman, and all he could think about was dying in front of Maeve and Grace.
“No!” Maeve’s scream tore through the night, raw and filled with terror.
And then, before Ronan could react, shots split the air—sharp, deafening cracks. Flynn’s body jerked violently, the force of the bullet driving him back. His pistol fired into the sky, wild and missing its target. For a moment, Flynn stood frozen, his eyes wide with shock, before he crumpled to the ground.
Ronan numbly turned and saw Grace standing a short distance away. She held a pistol in her trembling hands, the barrel still smoking. Her face was pale, her expression one of shock.
Then he saw Stuart to the side, who gave a little shake of his head, and Ronan was grateful for his action, the calm precision of a soldier. His pistol remained raised for a heartbeat longer before he lowered it, his steady gaze fixed on the fallen rogue.
Flynn’s men, who had watched the duel with bated breath, now hesitated, their confidence shaken by the sight of their leader’s lifeless body. One by one, they lowered their weapons and began to back away, retreating into the darkness.
Maeve let out a sob as the dam finally broke. Joy and Patience rushed forward, their relief palpable as they surrounded the group, checking for injuries and murmuring words of reassurance.
Ronan strode to Grace, his gaze intense. She still held the pistol, her knuckles white against the dark metal, as though she could not let it go. Gently, he reached out and covered her hands with his own and eased the weapon from her grip.
“Grace,” he said quietly, his voice thick with a mixture of awe and gratitude.
Grace blinked, as though coming out of a trance. “He was going to kill you,” she whispered.
Her words hung in the air, a simple truth that shook Ronan to his core. He placed the pistol on the ground and stepped closer, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. Then he gathered her into his arms.
Ronan held her tightly, memorizing how she felt in his arms. She melted into the embrace, her cheek resting against his chest. He owed her more than he could ever express, more than he could fathom in this moment. Flynn was dead, and his family was safe—for now. It was Grace who had stepped into the fray when all seemed lost by helping Maeve escape.
Grace’s breath hitched, and she shook her head slightly. “I missed,” she said, her tone hollow.
“You would have done it,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with wonder. “You would have killed for me.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she said nothing, merely nodding as though unsure how to respond.
Together, they gathered Maeve and the others, turning their backs on the battlefield and leading their horses towards the road that took them away. The night felt lighter, the immediate threat of Flynn gone for now. And though this was far from over, Ronan allowed himself to hope for peace.
CHAPTER 15
The ride back to Donnellan Castle was shrouded in unreality, Grace faintly registering the rhythmic beat of hooves upon the earth. The mood was sombre, the events of the night hanging heavily over them. The mist that had clung to the ground earlier had thickened to fog, its damp embrace lending an oppressive chill to the journey. Grace rode near the centre of the party, her shaking hands tight upon the reins, her thoughts like a swirling snow-storm she could not seem to see through.
She had tried to shoot a man.
Her fingers flexed without her consciously making them do so, as if they could still feel the weight of the pistol, the cold metal against her skin. The memory of that moment was seared into her mind: the glint of Flynn’s pistol, the sneering triumph on his face, the raw panic that had seized her chest as he aimed at Ronan. She had acted without thinking, moved by some primal instinct she had not known she possessed. And though her shot had missed its mark—thank heavens Ashley’s had not—she could not escape the knowledge that she had been perfectly willing to kill for him.
The numbness she felt was not from the cold but from the enormity of what she had done, or nearly done. She was not a soldier, not a hero in one of her stories. She was Grace Whitford, the quiet sister, the one who preferred books to ballrooms, who never sought to stand out. And yet, tonight, she had lifted a weapon and tried to end a man’s life.
She would do it again. It was not a feeling she welcomed, but it was there all the same, a steely thread running through the fabric of her shock. It had been necessary, she told herself. It’d had to be done.
The thought churned in her mind as the miles passed. Flynn had been a monster and deserved his punishment. The marks on Maeve’s face, the fear in her eyes, spoke volumes of his cruelty. He had sought to kill Carew, and Grace had been compelled to stop him. She was grateful—deeply, fervently grateful—that Ashley’s shot had ended it instead, sparing her the weight of having to bear Flynn’s death upon her own conscience. Not that it was easy for Ashley, but he’d had experience of such things in the war.
As they rode on, her gaze drifted to Patience, who rode confidently beside her husband. Patience, who had killed a man to save Ashley’s life and seemed none the worse for it. Grace had not asked her sister about that moment before, but now she wondered. Did Patience feel this same strange numbness? Did she lie awake at night, replaying the scene in her mind? Or had she simply accepted it as part of life’s cruel necessities and dismissed it with her customary strength?
“Are you cold?” Patience’s voice broke through her reverie, and Grace started slightly, realizing that her sister was watching her with quiet concern.
“A little,” Grace admitted, though she had not noticed. She offered a faint smile to reassure her. “I am well enough.”
Patience regarded her for a moment longer, then nodded. “If you need to rest, say so. We will stop.”
Grace shook her head. “The sooner we are back, the better.”
Patience nodded her understanding, glancing back at Maeve, who rode behind Ronan on his gelding. She was slumped against her brother, her exhaustion and trauma evident in every line of her body. Patience’s gaze softened. “We did right to come along.”
The conversation lapsed, and the party rode on, the looming outline of Donnellan Castle growing closer with every passing mile. The journey felt endless, but Grace welcomed the monotony of it. It gave her time to sort through her thoughts, to try to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions churning within her.
