Page 33 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Twenty-Two

B lood.

So much blood.

It soaked into the churned earth, stained the pale morning mist crimson, and spattered across William’s face and hands in cooling droplets. The metallic scent mingled with gunpowder and fear, creating a sickening perfume that clung to everything.

Around him, the battlefield of Prestonpans lay in chaotic aftermath.

British soldiers sprawled lifeless where they had fallen, their red coats darkened with death.

The wounded moaned as triumphant Highlanders moved among them, collecting weapons, helping injured comrades, or simply standing stunned at the swiftness of their victory.

Just as she had said it would be.

He continued onward, eyes scanning the fallen. Then he saw him.

Captain Mercer.

The man lay sprawled on his back, his red coat dark with gore, his face frozen in the slackness of death.

A musket had torn through his chest, leaving his uniform shredded, the fabric stiffening with dried blood.

His eyes were still open, staring blankly at the sky as if even in death, he refused to acknowledge the Highlanders’ victory.

William’s breath caught in his throat.

This was the man who had burned his home. Who had cut down his brother and parents without a second thought. Who had pressed a blade to William’s face, leaving him with a scar and a vow of vengeance that had kept him going through years of exile.

And now the bloody English bastard was dead.

Not by his hand. Not by his sword, not with the fury and justice William had dreamed of exacting.

Some nameless clansman had stolen that from him, robbed him of the moment he had played over in his mind a thousand times.

He should have been the one to watch the light leave Mercer’s eyes.

He should have been the one to whisper his brother’s and parent’s names as the bastard took his last breath.

Instead, he stood over the corpse, his fists clenched, his chest hollow.

Around him, men cheered, laughed, embraced. They had won. Scotland had won.

And yet, as he stared down at Mercer’s lifeless face, all he tasted was ash.

After a while, he stood, wiping his dirk clean on a patch of untrampled grass, his thoughts reeling not from the violence but from the impossible truth he could no longer deny.

Every detail Harper had predicted had come to pass.

The morning mist concealing their approach, the marsh crossing that Cope had deemed impassable, the devastating Highland charge that broke the English lines within minutes.

Even the timing matched her words exactly.

Less than fifteen minutes of actual combat, just as she had foretold.

His hands trembled as he sheathed his weapon. The familiar weight against his hip offered none of the usual comfort. How could any man find his footing when the very ground of reality shifted beneath him?

“MacGregor!” Lord George Murray’s voice cut through the battlefield haze. The commander approached, his normally immaculate appearance now disheveled, a streak of someone else’s blood drying on his cheek.

“Your men fought well. The prince wishes to commend you personally.”

William straightened, meeting Murray’s eyes with appropriate deference. “My thanks, my lord. I’ll attend to him shortly.”

“See that you do. This victory must be pressed while the enemy remains in disarray.”

As Murray strode away to deliver similar messages, his gaze swept across the killing field once more.

The sun had fully risen now, burning away the last wisps of mist and illuminating the terrible cost of their triumph.

Bodies lay twisted in death, some with expressions of surprise still frozen on their faces.

Men who had gone to sleep last night never imagining they would not see another sunset.

The battle will last less than fifteen minutes. The British forces will lose over three hundred men, but the Jacobites will lose fewer than thirty.

Her words echoed in his thoughts.

“William!” Angus appeared at his side, his red hair wild and his face flushed with victory. Blood stained the sleeve of his jacket, though he showed no sign of serious injury. “Have ye seen such a rout? The English ran like rabbits before the fox!”

William turned to him, his voice low and rough. “Mercer’s dead.”

Angus’s grin vanished. He followed William’s gaze to where the captain’s body lay, his uniform a ruin of blood and mud. “Christ.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “Did ye…?”

“Nay.” The word was a blade twisted in his own ribs.

Angus exhaled through his teeth. He knew what Mercer had done, knew the years William had hungered for this. He clasped his shoulder, grip firm. “Then may the devil greet him twice. And may yer family rest easier for it.”

William nodded, jaw tight. Around them, men laughed and drank, but the taste of victory had turned to gall.

Angus studied his face. “What else ails ye? That’s not just Mercer’s death weighing on ye.”

His thoughts flickered to Harper, to her moonlight confession, to time bending like a river current, but he shook his head. “Nothing. I find I am weary.”

“Weary? After such a victory? Let the English bastard go from your thoughts, he’ll trouble you no more.” Angus shook his head. “The lads are already singing ballads about the fight. They’re calling it ‘The Fifteen Minute Rebellion’.”

Fifteen minutes. Just as she had said.

“Have ye seen her?” The question escaped before he could stop it.

Angus’s expression softened. “Aye, she’s with the healers, tending the wounded, telling the men about her rocks.

” He laughed. “That will get them up on their feet and away.” He hesitated.

“Whatever quarrel lay between ye last night, surely it can be mended now. Life’s too precious to waste on anger, as this day has shown us. ”

The simple wisdom pierced his thoughts. Whatever impossible truth Harper represented, one fact remained immutable. He loved her. The thought of her had been his talisman during the chaotic rush of battle, her face appearing in his mind’s eye even as he led his men forward into the English ranks.

“Where?”

Angus pointed toward a cluster of tents hastily erected at the edge of the battlefield. “Near Preston House. They’ve set up a field hospital there.”

William clapped him on the shoulder in thanks, then began picking his way across the battlefield. His legs leaden, weighed down not just by physical exhaustion but by the burden of confronting what he had refused to believe.

The cannons had awakened her before dawn.

Harper bolted upright in the small tent she’d been given near the healers’ station, her heart hammering against her ribs. The distant thunder of artillery followed by the unmistakable roar of thousands of men charging into battle had confirmed what she already knew. Prestonpans had begun.

“Please keep him safe,” she’d whispered into the dim light, thinking of William leading his men into the fray.

Dr. Stewart had appeared at her tent flap just as she finished dressing, his weathered face grim.

“Someone will bring the wounded soon,” he said without preamble. “Can ye come?”

“Yes,” she’d answered, grateful for something, anything, to occupy her hands and mind while William faced death.

The first casualties had arrived within the hour, mostly English soldiers at first, then Highlanders as the battle progressed.

She had thrown herself into the work, cleaning wounds, applying pressure to stop bleeding, helping Dr. Stewart as needed.

The medical techniques she’d learned for geological expeditions in remote areas had never been intended for battlefield trauma, but the principles remained the same.

Stop the bleeding, prevent shock, stabilize.

Prince Charles himself had arrived briefly at the makeshift hospital, instructing that medical assistance was to be provided to both Jacobite and government soldiers alike.

His compassion for the wounded, regardless of allegiance, had impressed Harper even amid the chaos.

She’d watched as the prince spoke quietly to a badly injured English lieutenant, offering words of comfort before moving on to his own men.

The preferential treatment did not sit well with several of the Scots.

With each new wounded man brought in, she’d searched for William’s face, her heart simultaneously dreading and hoping to find him.

When reports of victory began filtering back to the makeshift hospital, she’d felt only momentary relief, knowing he had survived the battle didn’t mean he would forgive her for last night’s revelation.

The makeshift hospital buzzed with frantic activity.

Wounded men lay on blankets spread across the ground, their groans forming a terrible chorus.

Physicians and assistants moved among them, bandaging, cutting, cauterizing.

The acrid smell of burning flesh mingled with the copper scent of blood, creating a miasma that caught in the throat.

Near the tent entrance, Dr. Stewart worked with grim efficiency, his elderly hands steady as they stitched a gash on a young Highlander’s arm. The old physician glanced up as William approached.

“She’s inside,” he said without preamble, nodding toward the tent. “Been working since the first wounded arrived. Has a good head for medicine, that one, despite her odd ways.”

William ducked through the tent flap, momentarily blinded by the dimmer light within.

As his vision adjusted, he saw her kneeling beside a pallet where a man lay moaning.

Her hair had escaped its pins, falling in tangled waves down her back.

The sleeves of her dress were rolled up, revealing slender forearms stained with blood nearly to the elbow.