by Erin Grace
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 some 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.
Also by Erin Grace
Highwayman’s Hostage
Fire of my Heart
Pirate’s Serenade
The Viscount’s Christmas Miracle
Blind Devotion
You can find these titles
(with 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.
You can find out more about Erin on her website