Saving Grace

  Fall From Grace

  Jill Barnett

  Jill Barnett Books

  Contents

  Jill Barnett Bibliography

  Copyright

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Announcing a new series by Jill Barnett

  My Something Wonderful

  Fool Me Once Series

  Read an excerpt

  Also by Jill Barnett

  Jill Barnett Bibliography

  FOOL ME ONCE SERIES

  A Knight in Tarnished Armor (Book 1)

  Fall From Grace (Book 2)

  Marry In Haste (Book 3) Fall 2017

  * * *

  CHRISTMAS IN THE CITY SERIES

  Daniel and the Angel (Book 1)

  Eleanor’s Hero’s (Book 2)

  My Lucky Penny (Book 3) December 2017

  * * *

  SISTERS OF SCOTLAND

  My Something Wonderful (Book 1) July 2017

  * * *

  MORE HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  Bewitching

  Dreaming

  Imagine

  Carried Away

  Just A Kiss Away

  Wonderful

  Wild

  Wicked

  The Heart’s Haven

  * * *

  WWII

  Sentimental Journey

  * * *

  CONTEMPORARY

  The Days of Summer

  Bridge To Happiness

  Copyright

  Fall From Grace" copyright © 1993, © 2000 by Jill Barnett.

  * * *

  Published by Jill Barnett

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including informational storage and retrieval, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. For information contact Folio Literary Management, 505 8th Ave Suite 603, NY, NY 10018

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-0-9831804-2-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Art by Wicked Smart Designs

  For my family

  The Devil is always good to beginners.

  —Auld Scottish proverb

  Chapter 1

  The man was out cold.

  Grace McNish sat on his chest, looking down at him. Her head was surprisingly clear considering she had just slipped and fallen from an old rowan tree, and had had the blessed good fortune to land upon a dastardly McNab.

  She did remember him riding up the trail as if he owned it, his vile McNab plaid wrapped around his large frame and billowing about him like the devil himself. She remembered pulling her dirk. She even remembered taking a step onto a lower branch so she could leap on top of him at the exact, perfect moment. The trouble was, she never remembered that exact, perfect moment.

  She leaned closer, her dirk clutched in one fist, and scowled at him, trying to look mean and arrogant and cunning. Like the McNabs. She searched his face for signs of a trick, for it was known throughout the Highlands that a McNab could not be trusted. They had an unending hunger for land, and anything else of value, particularly anything that belonged to the Clan McNish, which the McNabs fed on the same way leeches fed on blood.

  She placed the blade of her dirk close to his neck.

  He did not move.

  Was he dead? She bounced on top of him a couple of times.

  His breath came out in a soft whoosh.

  She watched him closely, very, very closely.

  He slowly inhaled in a shallow way, like those who were asleep or unconscious. On his forehead was an egg-sized knot, just above his thick dark brows.

  She rubbed her own forehead and winced. His knot matched hers. She'd knocked heads with him, which she supposed would delight her grandfather since he'd often commented on ways for her to put her hard head to good use.

  She pressed the point of her dirk against the man's neck. If he moved, she would stab him. She looked around the glen for signs of more McNabs. Sometimes they traveled alone. Sometimes in packs like wolves scouting for wee lambs to gobble up. But the glen was empty. In fact, the only change at all in the small clearing was a spot of trampled bracken where his spooked horse had fled.

  Leave it to a McNab to be too cattle-handed to control one poor wee horse. She gave snort of disgust. The horse was probably stolen anyway.

  She leaned a wee bit closer, until her nose was almost touching his. His breath was soft and warm and sweet, as if he had just eaten an apple. She was so very hungry right now she would have eaten a day old apple core and been happy. She took a deep breath. Go away hunger!

  With her free hand she searched his upper body in case he had something to eat tucked away. But no. No apples. No bread. No cheese. Not even an apple core.

  At that moment she decided that she truly despised this man who couldn't handle his horse. The animal most likely carried some food in its saddlebags. She leaned down and gave him a look that should have cooked him, swiping the hair off his cheek so she could look at him and send curses on his heartless soul with her eyes.

  Most of the McNabs were uglier than sin. This one wasn't. His brow was broad and his blond hair was long, almost to his shoulders. His face was strong and craggy like the mountains in the distance. He had a square jaw that was clean-shaven, an oddity for the McNabs, who usually wore beards to hide their weak chins.

  He exhaled again. His breath swept across her lips and nose.

  Apples. Apple cake. Apple pudding. Apple tartlets. Apple jam. Stewed apples. Scones with apple butter. Roasted plovers with apple stuffing....

  Her belly growled. She knew hunger well, knew that it made people do things that they might not do otherwise. She looked at him long and hard to see if he was really awake and only faking.

  But his breathing was still shallow, so she relaxed.

  A twig cracked in the woods near her right.

  She froze. Her grip tightened on her dirk. Without moving her head, she cast a sly look to the right, then to the left. She recognized a familiar mutter and rolled her eyes. Not more than a second later it sounded as if someone were swimming through the nearby bushes.

  Swimming or drowning in them.

  "Fiona," Grace called out.

  "Aye! 'Tis me. I'm stuck." It sounded as if a team of oxen were tramping through the woods.

  Grace waited.

  Fiona McNish stumbled out of the bushes, twisting this way and that, mumbling and spinning like a dervish while she tried to free herself and her plaid from a thick bramble bush.

  Grace didn't know if she should laugh at her or yell at her.

  Finally free, Fiona turned and tiptoed over to Grace's side. She knelt beside the man, leaned over, and peered down at him. After a moment she turned and looked up at Grace, running her hand nervously through her curly red hair. "Is he dead?" She looked back at him. "Oh, Lord in Heaven above, Grace McNish! Please, say ye've not killed the mon!”

  Grace slid her small dirk back into her belt. "He's not dead. Only knocked senseless. 'Tis a fine state for a McNab."

  Fiona wasn't laughing with her. She looked as if she were about ready to run back to the old laird with fresh tales of Grace's latest mistake.

  Grace reached out and gently placed her palms on either side of Fiona's head. She turned it so she could speak into her left ear, since Fiona's right one was nearly deaf. "Lucky for us, Fiona McNish, that this man is out cold, since you just made enough noise to wake
even Old MacAfee."

  Fiona frowned. "Old MacAfee is dead."

  "Aye, my point exactly."

  Fiona stared at her, confused; then she said, "Oh. I was very loud? My plaid got caught."

  "You were supposed to stay hiding in the broom bush across the road until I called for you."

  "I was hiding in a bush."

  "Not where I told you to hide."

  "Aye, but I was worried about ye."

  "Worried about me? Now, why would you be worrying about me?"

  "He's a big mon, Grace."

  Grace poked a finger into his chest "This oaf? Och!" She turned away and crossed her arms in disgust. "Scotland would be a finer land with one less McNab."

  " 'Twas not him that had me worrying, Grace, but ye."

  "Me?"

  "Aye. Ye screamed so loud I heard ye with my right ear."

  "Scream like a frightened woman? Me? Hah! I would never!" Grace waved a hand in the air as if her throat weren't still raspy and sore, as if she hadn't screamed her bloody lungs out when she fell. "You needn't be worrying yourself about me. The blood of ancient warriors runs through my veins. True and brave. I am the laird's grand-daughter."

  "I thought ye broke something."

  "I did. I broke him…off his saddle." She laughed and laughed. But Fiona was still not laughing.

  "Don't be worrying about me. Look here. I've nabbed a McNab." Grace faced her. "I promise you. Nothing will go wrong this time."

  Fiona looked at Grace as if she had just promised to fly to the moon.

  "He is a McNab, Fiona. Look at the plaid."

  "Aye. I can see he's a McNab. I'm not doubting that. I believe ye think all will be well. But there is a vast difference between what ye think, Grace, and what actually happens." Fiona's expression grew dour. "I see trouble coming."

  "The only trouble coming is called McNab," Grace shot back, then tried to stand.

  Something stopped her and she landed back on his chest with a plop! Her plaid was caught underneath the oaf. She reached around and grabbed it, then tugged so fiercely she could feel her face turn red.

  A moment later there was a loud rip. "Fat McNab. . ." she said through clenched teeth as she wadded up more of the fabric in her fists and pulled again.

  "Do ye think he'll wake up soon?"

  Grace finally got the plaid out from beneath him. "I don't care if he never wakes up." She stood and planted her feet on either side of his waist, a pose of the conqueror over the conquered. She had seen the same stance in clan paintings hanging in the old castle before the McNabs raided the place and stole everything. Those paintings had showed past McNish lairds standing proudly over downed stags and boars, in the days before the clan war.

  She stared down at him. Even unconscious the man looked healthy as a milkmaid. "Look at him…the fatted ass, all hearty and muscled. The McNabs aren't starving for food."

  "Aye, from those shoulders and thick legs, I'd say the mon has not missed many meals."

  "He and his brothers have probably been stuffing themselves with McNish mutton. Stolen McNish mutton." Grace was suddenly quiet. A truly wonderful idea had just popped into her head. A scant minute later she grinned and resisted the urge to rub her hands together in wicked glee.

  "I know that look, Grace McNish!" Fiona made the sign of the cross and started to back away as if she were seeing into the eyes of the monster from the loch. "Ye've got yerself another idea, haven't ye? ‘Tis a frightening thing, that look ye wear."

  "Wait!" Grace ran around and blocked Fiona. "This is a good idea."

  "So ye always say." Fiona tried to sidestep around her.

  Grace grabbed her arm. "Listen."

  Fiona gave a resigned sigh and looked at Grace.

  "There shall be no puny ransom for this McNab."

  "What are ye thinking?"

  "We will not demand a ransom sum the usual way. We'll not calculate the price on his head based on how many lambs they've stolen." Grace smiled in anticipation. "We shall collect the ransom by weight!"

  Fiona stared at her. "Weight? What weight?"

  "His weight. Look at him."

  They faced the man together. Grace studied him for a long time. He had wide, plaid-covered shoulders and a narrow waist and hips. His thick muscular legs were covered in expensive trews that were worn only by those with a high rank in a clan. He also wore soft leather shoes—ones with woven silk laces. "Think of it, Fiona. A ransom by his immense weight should be enough to feed the clan for a long, long time."

  "Yer grandfather is not going to like this. Do ye not remember what he said? The Campbell himself, Lord of the Isles, is coming in less than a fortnight. All of the clans are trying not to make trouble now. Not a single one of them wants to kindle the powerful Campbell's bad side."

  "Och!" Grace spun around and then began to pace, her hands waving angrily in the air as she spoke. "As if I care one wee bit for the almighty Campbell's good or his bad side. We've not seen any help from himself, the great and powerful Colin Campbell."

  "But yer grandfather warned you just this morn. 'Grace,' he said. 'We'll have none of yer tricks for the next fortnight.'"

  "Poor Grandpapa." She sighed. "His mind is addled from lack of meat."

  "Grace ..."

  "You tell me what the almighty Campbell has done for us. Anything?"

  "No, but—"

  "Aye! Has he cared enough to intervene for us these past years when the McNabs were raiding?"

  "No, but—"

  "Aye! So ... why should I care for his bad side? You know as well as I that if he cared a whit for us, then he would have stopped the McNabs from stealing everything we had. And I?" She jabbed a thumb into her chest. "I should be worrying about whether we might kindle the Campbell's bad side? Och! If I had my way, I would light a bloody bonfire under it."

  She paced again, her jaw growing tighter and tighter with each step. She faced Fiona, her hands on her hips. "He hasn't done one single thing."

  "They say he's a busy mon."

  Grace snorted. "Aye, he's so busy belly-crawling to the Sassenach king or chasing after those wild MacGregors that he cannot have a care for the wee troubled clans."

  She stared quietly down at her plaid, where a new hole had just formed that morning. She rubbed her hand over it as if that one motion could hide all the shabbiness of her clothes. She stared down at her bare feet. Silk shoelaces? She didn't even have any shoes. "The clan won't make it through another winter with no food, no cattle, nothing but the thin, puny clothes on our backs."

  She stood proudly—at least, she felt it was as proudly as one who was four foot eleven could. Grace knew that she lacked stature. She tried to make up for it with spirit.

  Her grandfather called her spirit a vivid imagination with more pigheaded obstinance than a Sassenach has lies. But she believed that she held generations of Highland spirit deep inside her heart and that was why she felt things so strongly; it was in her very blood to have such strong emotions.

  She would be as stubborn as an old ass if by doing so she could save her clan. It was the motive behind everything she did.

  Someone had to do something. Her grandfather might believe that die almighty Campbell would help them, but she did not. She adjusted the folds of her tartan so they hid the thin tatters and holes, those places where during cold winter days the icy Highland wind would blow through and chill her to her bones and remind her of the shame of her father and her grandfather, of all the McNish.

  She faced Fiona. "My grandfather's first duty is to die clan. I am certain he will not give up the fine prize of a McNab to ransom."

  "I believe that ye're thinking a prize McNab might make yer grandfather forget about the fire."

  Grace didn't respond, but what Fiona said was true. It had been her fault that all their winter wood and small pots of coal had burned up.

  Fiona shook her head dismally. "If I take a deep breath, I can still smell the smoke. If I close my eyes, I can still see die old laird's red
face. I am not certain which was redder, yer grandfather's face or the flames."

  Her grandfather had been truly upset with her.

  "Even I wouldna give Seamus flaming arrows for his old crossbow."

  Grace raised her chin. "We have to protect the clan from the vile McNabs. My grandfather can do little with but one leg."

  "He does not need two legs to shout," Fiona said. "And shout he did. Even I heard him."

  "The McNabs didn't cut out his tongue," Grace said in a bitter and dry tone. "But they took his leg. They killed his sons and his pride. We are the only hope the clan has." Grace paused, then waved a hand casually in the air. "Besides, I told Seamus to aim toward the loch."

  "He was aiming for the loch."

  "See? That just shows you that he needed the practice. It seemed very logical to me that if the arrows were lit on fire, then Seamus could see how far from the target they landed and the target was the water."

  "But he did not hit the water."

  That was very true. He had hit the outbuildings. Grace felt guilty, terribly guilty, especially afterward when she had watched her poor grandfather hobble into the woods, a crutch in one hand, an old saw in the other. His shoulders were bent in defeat as he began to slowly try to replace months' worth of chopped wood.

  Grace had wanted to cry. Instead she ran after him and tried to help, but he did something he had never done before. He told her to go home and stay there. When she had argued, he had just ignored her and limped away.

  She faced Fiona. "I cannot undo the damage, but we can feed the clan with the McNabs' Michaelmas provisions. This is the chance we've been waiting for. It's time we started stealing back some of what they have so easy stolen from us. IH not let this opportunity pass."