The Pretender: A Scottish Jacobite Historical Romance (Daughters of the Duke Book 1) by Jaclyn Reding

Author:Jaclyn Reding [Reding, Jaclyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
Published: 2023-07-24T23:00:00+00:00

“'Tis time to awake, lass. The hour grows late. The road beckons.”

Douglas had been shuffling about the room for over an hour, trying not so very subtly to stir Elizabeth from sleep. They had miles to cover, and he was eager to be on the road to home. He wanted to get back to familiar ground, at home where, he told himself, he would feel more himself. Once there, he could put aside the oddness of the past few days and occupy himself with the matters needing his attention.

He watched Elizabeth as she finally started to stir. Her hair was mussed from sleep, curling and twisting around her forehead, and she was slow to waken, like a sunflower that slowly lifted its face to the sun. Douglas pushed the small curtain on the window above the bed aside to light the room. As the glow of morning streaked across her face, Elizabeth opened her eyes and peered at him.

She blinked.

“There is food,” he said, “on the table by the fire. Porridge, warm bannocks, fresh tea. Màiri brought them a little while ago. Are you hungry?”

She nodded. She hadn’t heard a thing. “Famished.”

They ate their breakfast quickly and were soon going on their way.

While Douglas went off to fetch the horses from the stable, Elizabeth dressed herself, pulling a simple riding habit from her valise. She was relieved to find stays that laced up the front among the other things in her traveling valise, for she had no intention of asking Douglas to help her dress every morning. Unaccustomed to the dressing of her own hair, she simply combed it free of tangles with her fingers and plaited it down her back, tying it off with a snippet of black riband.

The next few hours, for that matter, the next few days, passed quickly enough, uneventful but for the occasional rain shower or lumbering flock of sheep. Elizabeth spent her time drinking in the Scottish countryside, the cragged hills washed with golden gorse, the brilliant heather that carpeted the dales, it fascinated her unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The further they rode from England, the more rugged the landscape became. Fine whitewashed stone cottages with quaint windows and bright flower boxes set in verdant meadows soon gave way to cruder thatched huts that were tucked closely against stark rocky mountain faces. Trees became sparse, almost impossible to find in some places, and the roads narrowed to little more than meandering pathways. An hour, sometimes several would pass without seeing another living soul. When they did encounter anyone, it was often barefoot urchins and hopeless mothers pulling carts that were filled with their only possessions.

They were the true victims of the failed rebellion. They would speak to Douglas in Gaelic, telling how they had been driven from the hills, their homes put to ruin or burned by marauding English troops. It didn't matter that they hadn't joined the rebellion. The Duke of Cumberland, son of George II and leader of the English

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