by L. L. Muir
His eyes narrowed. I wiggled my fingers at him. He scowled, but I ignored him.
“During the aftermath of the Battle of Culloden, Raasay House was burnt in revenge by Captain John Ferguson as he conducted his search for Bonnie Prince Charlie who slipped through Government forces as it became clear the battle of Culloden was lost.”
Och, he dinnae slip through the government forces. He had watched the entire battle, short as it was, from a safe position behind his army. By the time I tried to leave the field, he was long gone. But he had spent the next five months or so dodging the English soldiers.
“There was a price of thirty thousand pounds levied on the prince’s head—dead or alive—and rumors of his presence on Raasay and Skye brought all manner of men to hunt him. Including men from Dunvegan who rowed daily across the sound to Raasay and conducted their own interrogation of the inhabitants of the isle.”
My blood boiled. Interrogation, my arse! I knew full well the history books recorded the actions of the MacLeods of Dunvegan who ingratiated themselves with The Butcher as the Rape of Raasay. My hands clenched at my sides and I chewed my lower lip furiously.
“Yes?” the woman queried, tilting her head at one of the men.
“Was the house built back right after the war?” he asked.
“Och, this house has seen many changes since Culloden. Including a massive reconstruction only a few years ago due to a fire that gutted everything except the west wing.”
I wanted to hear more. ’Twas my home she spoke of, and the things which had happened here whilst I lay on Culloden Moor. I’d spent the past two hundred and seventy years bemoaning my fate, angry at both Prince Charlie and the Duke of Cumberland for their parts in the war and its aftermath. But now that I was here on Raasay—the smell of the sea in my nose, the sight of the Cuillins of Skye just across the sound—a hunger gnawed inside me that defied description. I wanted more. What had happened to my family? Would I find their graves on the island, or had they left for calmer shores?
I glanced at my ghostly hands and then to the lad who seemed to be the only one who could see me. How would I find out these things? Who would talk to me?
The group moved forward and received their room assignments. My attention was torn between the overwhelming strangeness of this house and young Alex who now seemed determined not to look at me. On an impulse, I bugged my eyes wide open and stuck my tongue out at him.
“Come on, Alex,” the woman said as she followed one of the men from the room. “We need to put our things away now.”
Alex sent a furtive look in my direction, whilst his ma—facing me directly as she beckoned him on—stared through me as if I wasnae there. If I’d had any doubts about my ghostly status, this confirmed it.
They disappeared around a corner and I turned my attention to the entry hall. Though the outer walls were of stone as those of the original house had been, these inside walls were painted a lovely warm color. I shook my head. Would there be anything here I recognized? Given the tour guide’s talk earlier, I doubted it.
A pang of sadness clutched my chest. ’Tis been nearly three hundred years. What do ye expect? I shrugged in response to my mind’s unspoken question. I knew things had changed much since 1746. But my heart craved a deeper connection.
Eyes wide with wonder, I ambled down the hallway, winding my way past stairways and a small enclosed porch as I rounded yet another corner. I hurried past a room with machines for washing clothes, evidenced by the baskets of laundry. I wiped my grimy hands on my equally stained breeches as I wondered if one less pair of clean breeches and top from the washroom would be noticed.
I peeked into a room with seating for a goodly number of people, broken into small table groups, and caught a whiff of food cooking. Following my nose down the now-empty hall, I discovered the kitchen. No great stone fireplace met my gaze. Everything was sparkling clean and—modern. Fish lay on a long table, their scales glinting silver in the overhead light. A young man cleaned each one, his knife flashing skillfully as he worked. Two large pots simmered on a stove, aromatic smoke curling into the air above them. I grinned as my belly rumbled in response.
I may not have satisfied my heart’s desire, but my stomach had found familiar ground. Though the surroundings were strange, the food seemed to have changed very little.
Secure in my invisible ghostly body, I strode boldly into the room, drawn by the enticing smells. Not having eaten in nearly three centuries, I dinnae feel the need for sustenance, but my tongue fair cried out for a morsel to taste. I picked up a large spoon from beside the stove and dipped it into one of the pots. Closing my eyes, I sniffed, inhaling the spices and the richness of the broth. My smile widened at the first taste. Ma’s was better, but this was verra good.
A dark-haired woman bustled through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. Guiltily, I set the spoon down and stepped out of her way.
“Ye need to step it up a fair bit, lad,” she commented with a critical eye to his work. His placid nod of agreement didn’t speed his steady hands one bit. Which was likely a good thing as his knife appeared to be quite sharp.
“And stay out of the soup!” She fisted her hands on her hips, pursing her lips disapprovingly as she spied the trail of droplets on the counter.
I licked a bit of the savory concoction from my lower lip and waited for a twinge of remorse for the mess. Och, it dinnae come. I shrugged.
“’Twasnae me,” the lad murmured, not looking up from his job.
She snatched up a towel and scrubbed the counter clean. “I suppose ye will tell me ’tis a ghost, then?”
“’Twould explain a few things,” he replied in that same calm manner. But one corner of his lips quirked upward.
That caught my attention. A ghost? They couldnae mean me as I was only responsible for the mess with the soup, not a few things that needed explaining.
But the woman waved a dishcloth at his claim and busied herself with creating the meal.
I broke off a corner of the loaf of bread cooling on the shelf and headed out the door. It wasn’t hunger but appreciation for the wonderful aroma that caused me to surrender to the fresh, crusty treat. I munched it as I meandered through the house. A couple of lasses a bit older than myself placed eating utensils and glassware on the tables in the dining room, possibly readying to serve the evening meal. I wished to be alone with my thoughts, so I dinnae linger.
A small room with a fireplace and a raised wooden counter drew me in for a closer look. I peered at the labels on bottles arranged neatly on shelves. But my disastrous first sip of whisky a couple of days before the battle left me with little desire to sample the liquids here, and I moved on.
Eventually, I found myself on the first floor and caught sight of a set of glass doors. A small balcony nested above the front entrance to the house, fenced with a figured iron railing. An empty table and chairs beckoned and I sat, dragging my seat around to face the view, waiting for the memories to descend.
CHAPTER FOUR
The land stretched away from Raasay House, sloping down to the sea. Evening light sparkled on the crests of the waves, their troughs already dark as the impending night. Cattle in the field were little more than black spots against the winter-brown grass, and the boat which had brought the visitors to Raasay House winked red and green lights as it faded across the sound. A peace unlike any I’d known in years settled over me with the comfort of a well-worn plaide. I’d done nothing but return home, and I was content.
Behind me came the drawn-out whisper of fine-honed steel against leather. Frozen with the shock of recognition of the sound, my knuckles whitened on the arms of the chair, my body tensing to leap—but I couldnae move. Six inches of metal burst through my chest just below my breast bone, the wicked blade wavering as though veiled by thin gray smoke.
My hands relaxed. The sword withdrew and I slid sideways in my seat. A young man—likely only a few years older than me and dressed much as I was, in a fitted coat with tan bree
ches—glowered at me, sword held at a threatening angle. His frame was lean, youthful, and his shoulders wide with raw power. Dark blond hair fell to his shoulders, a slender braid at either temple holding the mass out of his face. I rubbed the heel of my hand over the spot below my breast bone in a reflexive action, not because it hurt. Steel held no threat for me now. The extra thump in my heart reflected my startled approval for the young man’s fine looks.
“What are ye about?” I asked, disturbed to find an attraction to the ghost.
The young man’s gaze held mine fiercely. “Ye arenae wanted here,” he intoned menacingly.
I arched a brow with slow condescension. After nearly three hundred years dead on the moor, I wasnae going to take fright at his bluff. “Indeed? And ye are—?”
His pallid cheeks flushed slightly. “I’ve been here longer. Two ghosts arenae needed.”
I gave a flippant wave of my hand, ignoring his lack of introduction. “Och, I’ll not be here more than a day or two. Dinnae fash.”
The tip of his sword dropped and he took a step forward, a glimmer in his eyes. “Truth? Ye can leave?”
The awe in his voice betrayed his longing to escape his current fate, and I wholeheartedly sympathized. From the looks of him, he’d likely haunted the place nearly as long as I’d been at Culloden. I motioned for him to have a seat. Shoving his sword back in its sheath, he snatched a chair and dragged it a bit closer to mine. I waved a hand about, indicating the house and glen.
“How long have ye been here?” I asked.
“I was here when the house burned—the first time,” he replied, a grim tilt to his lips as his face darkened.
My hands trembled and I leaned forward. Here was the ghost to answer my questions! My heart quickened. “Tell me everything.”
His scowl returned. “Why should I? I dinnae know ye.”
Surprised at his guardedness, and worried he’d disappear before I learned what I needed to know, I gave him my best smile. “Och, dinnae let the clothes bother ye. My name is Sorcha. My ma was a cook here before the war.”
He tilted his head in surprise. “Sorcha? Why are ye dressed as a lad?”
I shrugged. “I wanted to go to war with my brothers. I stole away and followed them, cut my hair and donned these clothes so I wouldnae be found out. I dinnae like it when they told me ’twas no place for lasses.”
His scowl slid effortlessly into a preen of male superiority. “And they were right. Battle is no place for a lass. How could ye manage? How would ye hold up under fire?”
“I killed the first man who drew his weapon against me,” I informed him, twisting the truth only a wee bit, for I dinnae know if ’twas my shot that killed the man or not. The memory of the mounted soldier, his face obscured by a burst of blood, caused my throat to constrict, adding harshness to my words.
The young man plumped back in his seat, a look of wary respect blooming across his face. “Do ye want the haunting of this place?” he asked, a wee bit of rumbling amusement in his voice.
Suddenly free of the vision, I threw back my head and laughed. “Nay! I havenae left the haunting of Culloden to settle here. Ye have nothing to fear from me. I willnae crowd ye out.”
He extended his hand. “My name is Alasdair. I am happy to meet ye, Sorcha.”
His dark brown eyes, when they werenae challenging me or in an insufferably arrogant squint, crinkled at the corners—laugh lines my ma’d called them when she’d stared adoringly at my da. I grasped his hand, his fingers encircling mine in a firm grip. Something akin to warmth flared up my arm from the point of our contact.
However, ’twas no help to me. I could enjoy my last few hours on earth looking at Alasdair, but ’twas not the bargain Soni and I had struck. I reluctantly pulled my hand away.
“I must perform a heroic deed by this time tomorrow,” I confided, determined to regain control of the conversation. “Do ye know of anything amiss here?”
His eyebrows furrowed in a look of concentration. “Raasay House burnt to the ground a few years ago, but they never discovered the cause and there’s been naught amiss since. Even I dinnae know what caused the place to burn.” He peered over his shoulder, into the house. “Could it have something to do with one of the tourists?”
“It could,” I allowed. “But how to know which one? They’ve all gone to their rooms, and even if they could hear me, I dinnae have time to sit and chat with each one.”
He clapped his palms on his knees and rose. “They’re likely sitting about the bar for a nip before supper. Come and I’ll show ye.”
Offering me his arm in an unexpected dash of gallantry, he waited for me to come to my feet. His gesture made me suddenly aware of my stained breeches, over-large, worn coat and the indescribable state of my cropped hair. I self-consciously wiped my hands down the side of my breeches before placing my fingers gently in the crook of his elbow, conscious of the difference in our appearances. Though his clothing was worn and boasted a slightly smoky aroma, he did not sport the same grime from my trudge to Culloden and subsequent years on the muddy moor.
“I can find ye a kirtle and a bit of time for a wash if ye’re interested,” he mentioned casually as we entered the house.
I would have pummeled my brothers for such words, but at the moment the thought of clean clothes and a wash made me melt. “I’d like that,” I admitted, heat in my cheeks as I smiled my thanks.
With a smart turn to the right, he strode off down the hall. I tagged along, trying to match my stride to his. We passed numerous doors, then, without bothering to use the latch, turned and walked through a solid portal.
“Here ye go,” he announced with a nod to the room. “Slip out of yer gear and step into the shower. I’ll be back with clean clothes in a moment.”
“Wait!” I cried, my fingers gripping the sleeve of his jacket as he turned away. His curious gaze returned mine.
“What’s a shower?” I blurted.
CHAPTER FIVE
A grin creased Alasdair’s face as he stepped to a verra narrow white-walled alcove set in the side of the room. Shiny knobs were fixed on the wall, and a tube with a flared end loomed over my head.
Alasdair pointed inside. “Here. Stand over this hole in the floor and push this wee button.”
He demonstrated with the silver button set even with the wall, and water spurted from the spout overhead. “This, dear Sorcha, is a shower.”
I struggled between the urge to wipe the smug look from his face and the longing to step beneath the steaming spray. Giving him a lofty shrug, I indicated his own somewhat tattered coat and wrinkled my nose at the hint of smoke.
“Do ye not make use of it, then?” I shot back at him.
The teasing smirk wiped clean from his face as the light in his eyes vanished behind a shuttered look. “I cannae wash away my past,” he murmured. “Yer clothes will be on the bed when ye are finished.” Pivoting on his heel, he disappeared.
Behind me, the water faded to a trickle. “No!” I leapt into the shower and pressed the button. To my relief, water gushed forth again. Stripping free from my coat and breeches, I stood over the small grated hole in the floor and let the warm water flow over me.
What about Alasdair’s past could he not forget? ’Twas clear he blamed himself for something—something that had rooted him at Raasay House these long years. What memory lingered, gnawed at his soul?
I stared at the shiny white wall before me. A worn chunk of what appeared to be soap sat on a small shelf. I rubbed it between my palms, pleasantly surprised at the resulting silky lather. Encouraged, I turned my attention to my hair, trying not to notice the matted strands that broke free and skittered across the floor on long spider-like legs.
The water failed again. I jabbed my thumb at the button, relieved to see the water surge once more from the spout. I rinsed quickly, satisfied with the squeak of clean hair and the pale pink of scrubbed skin just as the valve shut off for the third time. The last of the water swirled about my feet and
down the hole in the floor.
Cautious, I peeked into the larger room. A large fluffy drying cloth hung from a rack close to hand and I scooped it up and blotted my hair then wrapped it around me. The room appeared to be completely empty—no persons, ghostly or not, visible. I spied a length of fabric laying across the foot of the bed in the adjacent area. As Alasdair had promised.
Reflecting on my rowdy escapades as a child, it was a bit of a wonder that I now appreciated a clean gown. The soft fabric rasped across the rough pads on my hands and snagged on a jagged nail. Biting the nail into submission, I stepped into the gown. I manipulated a metal pull on an almost magical seam in the back of the dress, closing the edges of the fabric together. Much easier than lacing! But it had no give, and no way to adjust the fit. The fabric pulled a bit too tight across the top, and fell almost straight down past my knees from there, draping a bit loose at the waist. It was also dismayingly short, exposing a fair bit of my ankles, though I’d seen such lengths—and much shorter—on women at the Visitors’ Centre. A wave of self-consciousness washed over me as I wondered what Alasdair would think. I felt like a waif in cast-off clothing, but the dress was clean and smelled nice, and I was once again a lass!
I gave a short twirl, liking the flow of the fabric. I caught sight of a reflection in a full-length mirror across the room, the first view of myself in nearly three hundred years. Stepping before the glass, I studied the ‘modern’ me. Black hair curling in all directions as it dried. Pale blue eyes my brothers had often teased were ‘faerie eyes’. Ankles peeking from beneath my skirt atop bare feet. The gown’s neckline scooped enticingly and gathered with a narrow ruffle at the edge. The skirt was a heavy cloth I dinnae recognize, but the dark blue-green color was that of the ocean on a clear day. I grabbed the belt from my breeches and wrapped it about my waist, settling the problem of the somewhat loose fit. The weight of the dagger at my side was comforting, familiar.
