Prologue
Sherrifmuir, Scotland, November 13th, 1715
Even before the musket ball tore into the flesh of his forearm, Evan Bruce deeply regretted enlisting in the Jacobite army. The burning desire to spite his powerful father and follow the banner of the incompetent Earl of Mar had fled as the battle raged on. What did he care who sat on England’s throne—the Hanoverian or a Stuart whose father had never shown the least interest in his Scottish subjects before being deposed?
The icy damp of the lonely moor seeped into his breeches as he sank to his knees, dizzied by the fiery agony of shattered bone and torn muscle. Could a man die from a wound to the arm? He realized the odds weren’t in his favor if he lay bleeding on the boggy ground long enough, far from any physician.
He may have cried out as he collapsed, but his cries were borne away by the cold wind, along with the pathetic wailing of hundreds of others.
Born and bred in the heart of Perth, he’d never before ventured out on the heathland below the snow-capped Ochils—and now he would die in this desolate place. His father might never know what became of him; defying his sire had probably been for naught.
Licking chapped lips, he lamented he would never see his fiancée again. Pity that, though Eala’s sot of a father was no prize—almost as domineering as his own. Did Walter Bruce not realize his opposition to the marriage just made Evan more determined to marry the lass? In time, he and Eala might have learned to love one another—not that love mattered. She had the right hips to be a good breeder.
Evan fought to stay awake as long as he could, but the din of battle gradually faded and he gratefully allowed oblivion to take him.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he woke in hell. His whole body was on fire. A woman was screaming obscenities in Gaelic; bairns wailed; the stench of pigs made his eyes water.
“Where am I?” he dared, though he thought he knew.
“Dinna fash,” a surprisingly kind, unknown male voice rasped. “You’ll be safe here. I’m a doctor.”
Safe? He could scarcely believe he had survived. “Did we win?” he asked, tempted to laugh hysterically.
“Aye,” someone said at the same time as another lamented, “Nay, thefykingHanoverian carried the day.”
At least, he thought that’s what was said. If only the woman would cease screeching.
Thankfully, the darkness released him from her tirade.
An Unexpected Request
Edinburgh University, December 1715
Ambrose Pendray was delighted to see his mentor waiting for him outside the university’s wrought iron gates, although Dr. Giles Raincourt looked tired. Certainly, there was a lot more gray in his hair than the last time Ambrose had seen him more than a year ago. “Uncle,” he exclaimed, setting down his cumbersome portmanteau so he could extend a hand. “I didna ken ye were in Edinburgh. Will ye be traveling home to Ayrshire with me for Yuletide?”
Still frowning, Giles shook his hand. “How go the studies?”
“Excellent,” Ambrose replied, unable to resist boasting. “At the age of twenty-six, I am now Dr. Ambrose Pendray, having passed my examsmagna cum laude,and received my certificate.” He brandished his shiny, new medical bag. “I’m equipped with all the tools of the surgical trade.”
Giles stroked his tidy mustache. “Good.”
“Yer example inspired me.”
“I’m proud of you. You’ve kept your nose to the grindstone. I need you to accompany me to Perth.”
Ambrose grimaced. “Why would we go to Perth?”
“It’s where most of the Jacobite casualties from Sheriffmuir were taken after the battle a fortnight since. I’ve just come from there, and we desperately need more surgeons. The wounded men are hidden in crofts scattered on the moor above Perth.”
Ambrose removed his fur hat and scratched his head. Hidden men were desperate fugitives, which meant government forces were hunting them. “I canna do that. The family’s expecting me at Kilmer. My parents will be disappointed.”
If he was being honest, his refusal had as much to do with a reluctance to become involved with the Jacobite rebellion in any way, shape or form.
“I’m not asking as a Jacobite,” Giles insisted, as if sensing Ambrose’s train of thought. “It’s our duty as surgeons to answer the call when wounded men need us. Your family will understand.”
He was probably right. The Pendrays had, at one time or another, been on opposing sides in conflicts concerning royalty, yet they’d reconciled their differences and prospered.
It seemed Giles was intent on reminding him of it. “Your grandmother Hannah was a staunch Catholic royalist who’d risked her life to rescue the Scottish Crown Jewels from under the nose of Oliver Cromwell’s Parliamentary army when he invaded Scotland.”