Ghosts of Culloden Moor 06 - Fraser

by L. L. Muir

  “I leave ye a dress and a belt on the bed, lass. Do ye need help?”

  “No,” she said firmly, giving him cause to hope she was recovering from the shock, at least for the moment. “Thank you,” she added.

  He ate a bit while he tidied up the kitchen. The wine was better left alone, he reckoned, and drank water from the pipes instead. When the bedchamber door opened, he jumped like a guilty child, then stepped into the living room to see what she made of his improvisation.

  She stood shyly by the door for a moment, then stepped into the room and turned in a circle. “Not bad,” she said. “Thank you.”

  The belted poncho he’d made from one of the bedsheets suited her better than the wedding gown had done. At least she could move about in it without causing a ruckus. He’d sliced a small hole for her head. Then, about a foot or so away from that hole, to either side, he’d cut an even smaller hole for her arms. Through those holes, her hands and forearms protruded and she was free to move them about without revealing any more of her.

  She’d bunched it up, however, and left a disturbing expanse of her calves showing beneath. Of course he’d seen women in shorts all through the summer months, but not while he was burdened with the weaknesses of the flesh.

  He would simply have to keep his gaze away from the floor, was all.

  She gave him a wide grin. Her approval was a relief. The only other option he had to give her was the kilt off his back, and she wouldn’t appreciate him walking about the place in nothing but his long shirt. At least, he didn’t believe she would.

  Their smiles faded in unison and they stared at each other. A shiver started at her elbows and shook her shoulders. He looked to the hearth and grimaced.

  “Forgive me, lass. I should have lit the fire afore now.”

  He pulled a wooden rocker close, insisted she sit, and bent to light the fire. He’d desired to light a match for half a century and was happy to find a box of them on the mantle. But it was almost a disappointment how little effort was needed to get a good cook on the wood. His efforts, however, would be better spent in conversation with a lovely lass who might well be the last one he would ever see in the flesh.

  She declined a glass of wine or water, so he finally settled into a large, comfortable chair facing the fire.

  “Are ye feeling sound, then?” he asked politely, dreading the conversation to come, hoping she’d forgotten all about the silly rock and the barrier. Perhaps her mind would find a way to hide the memory from her, as had happened in one tellie program or another.

  “I turned on my phone long enough to send Austin a text.” She stared at her fingers. “I told him I’m safe, not to worry about me, and that I’m not ready to talk about it.” After a minute, she looked up. “But I am ready to talk about that rock. But first, I want to know if I’ll be able to leave here. If I got up and walked out of here, how far would I get? Am I trapped here too?”

  He quickly shook his head. “The barrier is for me alone. Ye’re free to leave whenever ye wish.”

  She leaned forward until her bare feet were flat on the floor and her elbows rested on her knees. Thankfully, the sheet draped low over her calves. “All right. Tell me. Why can’t you leave? And what kind of magic…” She waved toward the kitchen, but he knew she meant the glen beyond it.

  “If ye think ye can stand to keep yer eyes open for a long-winded story…”

  She nodded.

  “Then I’ll start at the beginning.”

  Her toes poked at the floor and got the chair to moving. He supposed the motion had a soothing effect on her much like Rabby petting old Dauphin, for which he was glad—she would need soothing by the time he was done.

  He pretended not to notice the way her fingers bit into her own arms when he told her when he was born in 1718 and died on Culloden Moor in 1746. She sat back quickly when he explained how he’d risen on Culloden the day after the battle…a ghost. She never interrupted, though, even when he skimmed over the happenings of the past two hundred and nearly seventy years since that day. She leaned close again when he told about Soncerae, how she had been a witch all along but they’d never known it, and why he’d been sent to this grand cottage, to await the moment when an impressive, heroic action would be needed.

  He omitted the detail of how much time he might have to accomplish this deed, and if he fails, that he’ll miss the chance to help wee Rabby summon the courage to escape the moor. All he’d said about it was that he’d already given away his boon in exchange for the chance to help the lad.

  She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with the edge of the sheet. “Well, that’s just stupid. Waiving your right to your boon, or whatever you call it, should be heroic enough, don’t you think? The witch should have called it good and let you…be…done.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never been gifted with knowing a woman’s mind, lass. I’m not Jamie Bloody Fraser, am I?”

  “Sorry?”

  He shook his head, disgusted with himself again. He’d let his bitter past slink into his mind much as the weather creeping up on them. The natural light dimmed and the smell of rain seeped through the screen and around the edge of the inner door. When the rain did come, he would go outside and stretch his arms wide, look up at the sky, and feel the drops splash against his skin. For too long he’d been immune and unfeeling to Scottish weather. The chance to touch the Highland rain again was a boon in itself.

  “Never ye mind,” he told the lass. “Just a popular character from fiction. I thought ye might be familiar…”

  “Popular, huh?”

  “Aye.”

  “And knows how to understand women?”

  He smiled at the tease. “Auch, aye. And a braw Scottish laddie to boot.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Of course, he was created by a woman, so…”

  She nodded. “Oh, I see. About as popular and probable as unicorns?”

  “Exactly that. And if the television actor farted rainbows, I wouldna be surprised.”

  After she stopped giggling, he then confessed to trying to use his own name of Fraser to lure her back to the house when he worried she might leave him in truth.

  She sat forward again, as did he, feeling a need to be closer to the lass, but not bold enough to move his chair for fear of frightening her again. Her charming toes pinched at the floor and he wondered if they were cold.

  “So, you think you’re supposed to save me from something? You think I’m your damsel in distress?” The sparkle in her eyes made him believe the idea intrigued her. Many a lass might have been offended by the idea of needing any man’s help.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “It couldn’t be from Austin, but maybe from Rick?” She laughed then. “Or maybe from a bear?”

  “It has been centuries since we’ve had bears in Scotland, lass.”

  She sucked in her bottom lip and studied his face for a moment. He could hardly wait to discover what was going on behind those clever eyes. “Maybe,” she finally said, “you’re supposed to save me from you.”

  He came very near to closing the distance between them, taking her in his arms, and showing her how a mortal man might truly pose a danger to her. But from the look on her face, she had understood the message in any case.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  At long last, Alexander could appreciate the term awkward silence.

  Seconds ticked by while they gazed at each other, waiting for the other one to disrupt the quiet. A slow smile stretched across Chelsea’s blushing face and she chuckled. He laughed along with her to try to dispel the discomfort of the moment.

  “Well,” she said, “since I don’t have anything else on my calendar, I think I can stick around for a little while and see what happens.”

  He inclined his head. “I’d be much obliged to ye.”

  “Maybe you can tell me more about your ghost friends.”

  A pleasant change to be sure, speaking of things other than themselves. It was evident she wished to avoid
the subject of her own wedding just as he wished to avoid the memory of the day when he, too, came close to marrying. Or at least he thought he had…

  She rocked the chair on and off, stopping when the conversation grew serious, rocking while he told her of silly things, like the color of heather, gorse, and the enchanting glen behind the cottage—all more beautiful now that he could see them with mortal eyes—and how he would like to see Culloden one last time in full light.

  When there was little else to tell, her legs seemed to grow weary and the chair settled. A sigh escaped her, heavy with regret. She tried to smile, but failed. “I can’t really believe any of this, you know.”

  “Oh, aye.” He knew her easy acceptance of his tale had been too good to be true. “I can only guess at how impossible it all sounds. It would have seemed outlandish to me had I not been witness to my own death, felt the blood drain from my body and leave me cold as the moor itself.” A shiver passed through him at the memory.

  She wrapped her arms around herself as well. “And supposedly, when you…go again, you’ll die again?”

  The idea was sobering and brought him to his feet. He bent to stoke the fire to excuse the action. “I dinna ken what will happen, lass. I can only hope that Soncerae, a lass I’ve known nearly all her life, would not put me through something as violent as my first death.”

  A second death? Please, God, spare me that.

  It suddenly occurred to him that such a fate was likely what made Rabby hesitate. Before he assured the laddie it was safe to move on, he would have it from Soni’s own lips that there would be nothing frightening awaiting Rabby if he did as he was bade.

  Laughter filled the room and he turned to find Chelsea with her head thrown back against her chair and her hands gripping the carved arms as she laughed herself silly.

  His own thoughts were far too sober to laugh with her, though he could not help but smile at her delight. He scooted his arse onto the hearth and waited for her to finish. It proved to be a fine maneuver to get closer to the lass, so he was in no hurry to have his curiosity satisfied.

  When she finally wound down like a child’s toy running out of battery power, there were tears in her eyes that couldn’t all be blamed on amusement. His smile fled and he reached out and took her hand in his.

  “What is it, lass?”

  She bit at her lip and her brows worried together. “Are you even here? Maybe I’m… Am I going crazy?”

  He was finally able to chuckle, though lightly. “Nay, lass. Ye’re not mad at all. Any sane woman would balk at what I’ve said, at what you saw in the glen. Nothing natural about it, to be sure.” He squeezed her hand. “Do ye feel that?”

  She nodded, relieved.

  “I’m real enough, then. For the moment.”

  She seemed much calmer, though still a bit worried. “Then what do we do?”

  We? “Auch, but the dilemma is nay yers, lass. I alone must prepare for what may need doing. Nothing for you to worry over at all.”

  She was the one to squeeze his hand then, and he felt it all the way to his heart. “But you’ll go away as soon as this quest is over?”

  “Aye, lass. Straight away, I would hope. For every minute I can spare the laddie from his tenure on the moor is a victory, is it not?”

  She nodded. Could he dare imagine she might regret never seeing him again?

  “Let us not worry o’er it,” he said cheerfully. “Tell me about yerself while there is time to tell it. Later, I will wish I knew more about ye than the curve of yer cheek and the bow of yer lips.”

  Her hand flew up to cover her mouth and she blushed. “You’ll remember my lips?”

  “Auch, aye. I’ve stared at them long enough, haven’t I?”

  She giggled and forced her hand to her side, then bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was the dearest sight. And a moving one. In fact, it moved him off the hearth to kneel before her knees. She sobered instantly, and though she appeared uneasy to have him so close, he couldn’t drag himself away. At least, for a moment, he wanted to be near enough to feel the warmth of her, to see her face clearly, to absorb the sound of her voice into his bones.

  It would all make a fine memory…no matter where he went…after.

  “Well, that’s a pretty sight, isn’t it?” Rick stood on the small porch holding the screen open. He’d already pushed the inner door wide, but Alexander hadn’t heard so much as a squeak. And sitting before the fire, he’d not felt the air move.

  He was already on his feet, ready to defend the woman with his life, as he’d been prepared to do all day. It seemed a quiet moment alone with her, a kind word and a gentle touch, were to be fleeting things, but he was glad the gifts had come before it all ended.

  It took all his concentration to keep from glancing at the weapon mounted just above the doorway. If the man charged, there would be no time to reach it. He needed to keep the man outside.

  He hurried forward, blocking the villain’s view of the lass, demanding his attention. He only hoped his expression promised pain if the man had ill intentions.

  “Wait!” Chelsea’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

  He turned sideways to divide his attention between her and the one who so upset her.

  She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. The defensive move was telling. This man had hurt her before. “Is Austin with you?”

  Rick sneered. “No. He’s sleeping, hopefully.”

  She stuck her chin out like the brave lass he knew her to be. “Then what do you want?”

  “I want your promise that you’ll leave him alone. But now that I’ve got these pictures,” he waved his camera back and forth, “I don’t need any promises from you. I’ll let these do the talking, and there will be nothing you can say that will make him want to listen.” He laughed and walked sideways down the steps. “You have a nice weekend, Cheese.”

  He strode arrogantly down the drive, then began jogging at the bottom, no buggy in sight. Alexander prayed for the clouds to unleash their load and humble the blackguard.

  The lass stood rooted to the spot, staring at the open doorway. Alexander had no idea what might soothe her, so he waited for her to give him some hint. A long minute later, they heard a distant engine turn over. With the door mostly closed as it had been, it was no wonder they hadn’t heard the man approach.

  Finally, Chelsea met his gaze. “That should put the nail in the coffin, right?”

  He winced at her choice of words.

  “Oh my gosh!” She hurried to him and gently squeezed the sides of his arms. “I’m so sorry. That was a horrible thing to say! Please forgive me.”

  There was the gentle touch again. A kind word. Another private moment. So he wasted no time.

  “Tell me, lass, do ye still feel the same as ye did in the glen?”

  “You mean, petrified?”

  “Nay. Like ye dinna belong to any man?”

  Her hands fell away as she released a drawn-out breath. “Yes. I do.”

  He nodded sharply. “Good.” With gentle hands, he tugged on her arms, then gathered her close. “For I believe the balm that will solve both our woes…is a kiss.”

  Surprise parted her lips and he took advantage. At least, if she wasn’t prepared, she couldn’t send him arse over teakettle into the fire. Her lips were sweet and soft as he knew they’d be. And the tang of her skin nearly intoxicated him after so many years without any sense of taste. His memories of most things had faded and jumbled, and he imagined, if he sipped whisky again, it would pale in comparison to this lass’s kiss.

  As would roses, violets, honey on his tongue…

  Chelsea seemed taken with the kiss as well. For a long while she played give and take with him. But when the toying ended, he should have stepped back. He held her close just a moment too long and her thoughts must have found their way through the lovely haze he’d tried to create around them—for her tears tumbled down her face and onto his chin.

  She tried to retreat, but he pulled h
er against him, cradled her head gently to the side, and straightened so she could greet against his chest and catch her tears on his shirt. She ceased resisting and waves of sobbing broke over whatever barriers she’d erected for herself.

  Listening closely with all his soul, he heard it—that moment when her heart well and truly broke.

  If the groom and his henchman were lined up at the door just then, he would have run them both through in a single thrust of his spear.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dear Diary,

  If I ever fall apart again, I mean really fall apart, I’m going to find a Highlander first. I mean, if I’m going to bawl my eyes out, what I really need is for the skies to unload millions of gallons of water and for the rumble of thunder to match the exact tone and vibration to the guy petting my head and saying soothing things in a language that could not possibly be real.

  Chelsea smiled into her tissue. Yeah. That’s what she’d write, if she was the type to keep a journal. Oh, and she would have to remember to add in the part about having a nice soft sash of plaid wool to discreetly wipe her nose on in an emergency situation.

  Only, she kind of got busted on that one. He had to have suspected what she’d done because a few seconds later, he excused himself, went to the kitchen, and came back with a box of tissues. He didn’t look too disgusted, though, so maybe he hadn’t noticed after all. Or maybe he was just a good actor.

  “Better now?” he asked softly.

  She nodded and moved to the small fire to toss the tissue into the flames.

  “I do regret the pictures the man was able to take. I should have never moved so close to ye, aye?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Rick’s a patient man. He would have waited as long as he had to for what he needed. If he meant to ask me to leave Austin alone, he would have parked at the bottom of the hill. But he didn’t. He knows that being sneaky always pays off, eventually.”

  “Just the same,” he said, “I am happy to stand as witness if ye’d care to call Austin to come to the property, to hear our side of things.”