One Scottish Lass A Regency Time Travel Romance Novella

Chapter 1

England, 1802 

"Dreams do come true,

If we only wish hard enough.

You can have anything in life

If you will sacrifice everything else for it."

-- James Matthew Barrie, Scottish author of Peter Pan

Sorcha made what must have been the hundredth attempt to tuck her flame-red hair back into its bun, then frantically raced to catch up to her mother on the moonlit street of Bath. Her mother's elegant, ivory dress shone beneath the stars, resplendent with its delicate embroidery and moonstones. Sorcha's own dress was certainly the finest she had ever worn, but not nearly as stunning. Her mother would never allow her own entrance to be outdone by anyone – least of all her own daughter.

Her mother turned, her coal-black eyes drilling into Sorcha through the crisp October air. Her voice was a hiss. "Don't run," she snapped. "A lady never runs. And did you actually wear your pearl earrings and necklace? I explicitly told you to wear the moonstone."

Sorcha's hand went automatically to her throat. The jewelry set had been her grandmother's and was her most prized possession. "Och, but mum –"

Her mother's hand flashed high and nearly descended on her. Sorcha knew it was only her mother's fear that her daughter might enter the party with a large mark on her face that shielded her from harm.

Her mother's voice became laced with ice. "If I hear you use the word och just once tonight, I swear, I will whip your behind so severely that you will not be able to sit for a month."

Sorcha pressed her lips tight. Her mother barely believed in exercise; she spent most of each day shut up in her library, the curtains pulled tight, carefully applying creams and unguents to preserve her beauty. The one time she seemed to relish physical activity was when she selected a hickory switch and beat Sorcha for her latest infraction.

Her mother was careful. The blows were always on the rear. Heaven forbid her daughter was marred in any public way which might interfere with a profitable marriage.

Her mother's arm snaked forward and a vise-tight grip clamped around Sorcha's wrist. Sorcha bit back the cry of pain. She knew better than to agitate her mother tonight. Not when her mother had been planning this trip for months. Tonight was the culmination of intense effort, and if even the slightest thing went wrong, Sorcha knew she would pay dearly for it.

Her mother's voice drilled into her ear, echoing Sorcha's thoughts. "If you do one thing to ruin our time at Master Davenport's birthday celebration, I swear you will regret it."

Her mother straightened up again, her dark brown hair perfectly elegant, as always, within its carefully constructed bun. Her moonstone earrings dangled just so from either side of her china-smooth face. People often told her that she looked like Sorcha's older sister. These were the only times that Sorcha's presence made her mother smile.

The pair continued down the row-house-lined street. It was fairly early, yet. A variety of citizenry were returning from a dinner, heading off to a show, or simply enjoying the night air. An elegant horse-and-carriage passed them, the driver looking smart in his black suit. Sorcha soaked in the sights. There was nothing like this back in her native Scotland.

Sorcha's mother paid them no mind. She had a single-minded focus on the path ahead of them. She barely glanced around as she approached the next intersection, took a right, and then plowed on through the night.

Sorcha's eyes went wide as they approached the next home. Crouched against a long, stone staircase was an emaciated man, huddled in ragged clothing against the sharp cold. Sorcha's instinct was to go to him, to see if she could help in some way. He reminded her all too keenly of the poor crofters and dispossessed back in Scotland, driven out of their farms and lands by the British.