New Orleans

January, 1815

How the bloody hell had he gotten here?

Jonathan Hird sat astride his horse and glanced around. He wasn't sure he had the answer, but he knew he needed to find it quickly.

A dismal morning surrounded him with its fog-drenched air, obscuring his vision in every direction.

He listened.

Voices muted by the heavy mist a good hundred yards in front of him reminded Jonathan that he wasn't alone. He slowed his breathing, remained motionless while he waited, and listened, and wondered. All grew quiet. Much too quiet.

A flicker of a light breeze ruffled his hair and began to strip the fog away, leaving in its wake a view of a battlefield waiting for the combatants to emerge. Jonathan, unfortunately, seemed to be in the center of the battle to come.

It was the wrong time and the wrong place.

He shivered.

The battle for New Orleans would be bloody.

Nudging his horse, he took a deep breath and raced across the muddy, rock-strewn field where the British, his countrymen, waited on one side and his best friend on the other.

Jonathan hadn't planned to put his hide in the middle of the skirmish, but it was the only way he could get to Adam Trent. And he must get to Adam, for he had vowed to support his friend and their cause.

The Highlanders swung onto the battlefront, their bagpipes skirling the blood-stirring music of Scotland. Thinking how strange it was to hear that heart-wrenching sound on American soil, Jonathan glanced to his left. Suddenly everything seemed to move in slow motion. He crouched down on his horse and prayed that this battle would not be his last.

Familiar voices caught his ear. "What's that god-awful sound?" one of Jean Lafitte's pirates shouted from behind their barricade.

"Look!" Dominic You chuckled as he pointed toward the field. "Just how tough can they be?" He laughed. "Look at them ... they're wearing skirts!"

A bullet screamed past Jonathan's head. If he didn't make it to the American barricade in the next few minutes, he might end up in British hands. His countrymen would never understand why he'd chosen to fight with the Americans.

Jonathan turned his horse and headed for the American side. He raised his head to search for Adam through smoke-filled air, and to let the men see who he was so he wouldn't be shot. Those bloody pirates would shoot anyone first and ask questions later.

There he was. Adam had seen him.

Just a few more yards and Jonathan would be safe behind the barricade.

That was when his luck ran out.

Suddenly, a pain hotter than any fire seared through him.

Wait a minute, he protested inwardly. This couldn't be happening. Elizabeth would be waiting for him. His sweet Elizabeth. The woman who'd finally made him see that he could settle down and give up the other women ... the gambling ... the drinking ... all the things he'd thought were making him happy.

"No!" He groaned as he grabbed his arm where the pain was concentrated. His hand was sticky and slippery with warm, red blood. He was losing his grip. He had to hold on.

He had to make it to Adam.

Blood seeped faster down his sleeve. He tried to grasp the horse's reins, but his fingers wouldn't obey. The ground rose to meet him as he lost his balance and slipped from the saddle.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there. The damp, cold earth chilled him.

The guns and battle cries seemed at a distance now. Only the beating of his own heart sounded in Jonathan's ears.

Just for a brief moment, he saw her face ... Elizabeth Trent ... the woman he loved. Her raven-black hair flowed around her shoulders, and her slate-colored eyes glistened like black diamonds as she held her hand out to him. Yes, he could give up all his old ways for her. Her creamy skin and sweet smile would make any man think he was seeing an angel.

But beneath that angelic appearance was a feisty, headstrong woman who needed a strong man to tame her. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was quickly extinguished by the pain in his arm. He had intended to be that man. He couldn't die now.

Blackness closed in on him too rapidly.

Jonathan! He pushed himself up to listen. Jonathan!

Was someone calling his name? With a great effort he tried to rise to meet her, but he didn't have the strength.

Who was that fool running across the field?

He couldn't hold on much longer.

Again he reached out to touch Elizabeth, but his fingers wouldn't close over her hand and everything faded to black.

Now Jonathan Hird, the Earl of Longdale, had lost everything.