by L. L. Muir
PAYTON
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No.4)
By L.L. Muir
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Lesli Muir Lytle
www.llmuir.weebly.com
Payton © 2015 L.Lytle
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
About the Author
DEDICATION
To the inventors of American football…
for supplying a distraction
for my husband
every fall
so I can write in peace.
A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES
Although the individual stories of Culloden’s 79 need not be read in strict order, The Gathering should definitely be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1745.
The Reckoning, Number 79’s story, will finish the series.
The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Fitzjames Payton pushed his way to the fore of his band of fellow Highland ghosts and hoped he’d be chosen next. If he never had to wake again to find Moonie’s face smashed against his own ear, it would be too soon. But even a day or two apart from the broody man was welcome. So if wee Soni was offering tickets for time away from the moor, he wasn’t going to wait about to see if there were any of those tickets left when she got around to him.
No. He would take the initiative. It was the kind of Scot he was. Not a sitter, a waiter, or a time-bider was he.
“Soni, lass. I’m willing and ready.”
The wee witch smiled kindly at him and her face wrinkled about her eyes. ‘Twas one of the things he loved most about her.
“I’m not surprised at all, Fitzjames. Ye’ve never been the patient sort, so I’m amazed it took ye so long to rise from yer grave, aye? Number 48 indeed.” She shook her head at him, but it was only in teasing. “Step forward.”
Truth be told, he’d been a bit surprised as well to find that so many others had managed to shake themselves awake again the morning after their final mortal battle, before he’d thought to rise.
He advanced as far as he dared what with the green light swirling about the skirts of her robe. “Prove meself, ye said?”
“Aye, my friend. It’s all ye need to do.”
“Then vengeance is mine?”
She gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t be stealing the Lord’s own thunder now.”
The scripture sounded in his head and he was immediately contrite.
“Weel, what I meant to ask, of course, was if I would then be able to…sit down with our young prince and show him just where he went wrong?”
Soni listened carefully, then nodded with approval. “Help the lad see the errors of his ways. Sounds noble itself, aye?”
They laughed together. Number 32 chuckled too, since he was standing close enough to hear it all whether his ears were working correctly or nay.
Soni raised an arm and Fitz reached out to stop her. “How much time will I have, lassie?”
“Auch, now. I wouldn’t know, Fitz. Ye’ll just have to see how long it takes ye, aye? Just like the rest.” She winked then. “Have a bit of faith.”
He nodded, and before he could raise his head again, the light of her grand bonfire, and the swirl of green was gone. And in their stead was darkness, black as pitch. Then that blackness was broken by hundreds of wee round lightbulbs strung in a row.
Sound returned to his ears in a roar, but he stood his ground and waited to see the direction the danger came from. Little by little, the sounds separated into different directions. The murmur of an engine behind him. The peal of laughter from his right. A car door slamming shut to his left.
The wee line of lights was reflected again and again in large panes of glass before him. Then the panes began to spin.
A revolving door.
A smiling doorman tipping his hat to a couple stepping into the building.
A large red sign above Fitz’s head—Dalworthington Gardens Country Club.
A hissing sound. He turned toward it and found a young, blond woman standing to the far side of a wide, cylinder-shaped shrubbery that was nearly as tall as she was. For the moment, all he could see was her head.
She motioned him to her and glanced nervously at the doors. Fitz looked about, and since no one else seemed to be interested in speaking to him, he closed the distance. If all she needed was clothing, he’d give her his plaid and his noble deed would be finished in the time it took to make a toast to the king over the water.
The lass was lovely, to be sure, and strong—for she pulled on his arm and swung him around to stand even deeper into the bushes before he ever thought to resist. Her golden hair never moved a whit. Her lips were blazoned red with lipstick, and her eyes were the deep green of moss under water. And she was in no need of clothes thanks to a striking ruby-red gown that fell to her painted toes.
“Good eve to ye, miss.” He made as much a bow as the cramped space would allow.
She groaned. “Look, don’t overdo it, okay?” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe they sent you in a kilt! That’s just—” She groaned again, obviously willing to leave the rest of her words unspoken.
Even with the knowledge he’d gained from watching the tellie, he had no idea what those unspoken words might have been. She was clearly unhappy he wore a kilt, but he hadn’t had much choice in the matter.
He peered down to see if his clothing was perhaps out of place, but indeed, it looked new as could be. The colors in his plaid were more vibrant than he’d ever remembered, but that might be due to the fact that he was able to see it once again with mortal eyes. For it was the truth—everything had much more color than he’d seen in quite a time, and not just the young woman’s lips.
“I apologize for the kilt,” he said, remembering the words of many a man on the moor and television alike—better to admit you are wrong than to argue with a woman in the 21st century.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and while she exhaled, she smiled and opened her eyes. “No problem. I’m sorry I freaked out on you.” She lifted a pretty hand with red nails that matched her gown.
He shook it gently and noticed how thin the lassie seemed. The bones in her hand felt as sharp as the ring on her finger.
“I’m Grace.”
“A lovely name—”
“And you’re Jim.”
He was confused. “I am?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve been telling my family about my boyfriend, Jim, for months now. And I would have thought of a better name, but The Office was on, and…well, you’re just going to have to go by Jim for the rest of the weekend.” She grimaced. “Okay?”
Ah. So the lass needed him to play a role, to appease her family. And though
he was none too happy about the dishonesty of it, he had little choice but to participate if his quest was somehow connected to the lass.
He sighed, and gave her a nod, agreeing to the pretense. “My name is Fitzjames, by the way. Those who know me well call me Fitz.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to be Jim. That was the deal, right? I mean, didn’t they explain this to you?”
He shook his head. “Regrettably, nothing was explained to me, lass.”
She smiled warmly. “Lass. I like that.” She looked up into his eyes for a long moment and he felt the thrill of having won her attention. But then she shook her head as if shaking off a spell. “I can’t believe they didn’t give you the details. That’s just…” She noted his concern and quickly washed the worry from her face. “Never mind. You know what? We’ll just work with it, all right? I can give you a run down and we’ll just have to wing it. What do you say?”
He’d like to say he appreciated her straight white teeth in spite of the lipstick, but he simply had to make the lass happy. There was something about her that needed…cheering.
“I say, I appreciate yer optimism, and I shall endeavor to be optimistic as well.”
Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t lose her smile. “You’re really Scottish, aren’t you?”
“Until the day I die.” His voice caught on the end when he realized that day had already come and gone.
Her top teeth bit into that plump lower lip and she gave him a smile sweeter than any he’d ever seen before.
“Okay then, Jim. Here’s the set up.” She looked about them, then leaned close. “We’re both from Eugene, Oregon. My sister’s getting married, and we’re about to go inside for the wedding supper. My family is dying to meet you, of course. And I’ve put them off as long as I can. Hiring you to play the part was the only choice I had if I’m going to keep my mother from making me move back home, okay?” She didn’t wait for his response. “We met at a Scottish festival. The one in Eugene.”
“That sounds plausible.”
“We have been dating long-distance since last August, but I didn’t tell anyone until Christmas. You were my excuse not to come home last year.” She looked guilty for a breath or two, then it passed. “You’re an engineer.”
“What sort?”
She shrugged. “I never said.”
“You have two sisters and a brother, but they live in Scotland.”
A long time ago, he truly had three sisters, but no brother. And if he were a caring brother at all, he would use some of his mortal time trying to discover what had happened to them.
“And my parents?”
“Died in a car crash. I’m sorry.”
He nodded solemnly, then smiled at the ridiculousness of it. His parents had died long before the invention of cars. And of course, the lass couldn’t be sorry they’d died in a car crash, but perhaps she was sorry she hadn’t created a cheerier story for him.
“Yer condolences,” he said gravely, “are appreciated.”
With their heads bent together and a jest shared between them, it became an intimate moment he didn’t intend to pass up. So he leaned closer and kissed her lightly on those red lips.
She pulled back and frowned.
He held up his hands to feign innocence. “I just supposed, if we had the first one out of the way, we would seem more familiar with each other—to others.”
She nodded, but still frowned. “Okay.” She pointed a shiny finger at him. “But don’t do it again. I’ll kiss you, okay?”
“Aye.” He couldn’t help the grin, and eventually, she lost the frown and allowed her smile to return, which seemed a natural state for her. “Ye should always smile, Grace. Always. Even in yer sleep.”
They stepped out from the bushes and turned toward the door. She was nervous and clung to his arm like they’d known each other for much longer than they had. And he liked to think that his kiss had been a good idea after all, and not just an advantage taken.
“What’s her name?” he asked quietly.
“Who?”
“Yer sister.”
“Oh! Patience.”
“Patience and Grace. Fine names.”
“The groom is Shawn. Oh!” She leaned up close to his ear which entailed rising onto her toes and pulling him down to her. “You’re a Cowboys fan from when you were little.”
“Cowboys?”
“Football.”
“Ah.”
And with that, they stepped up to the door, nodded to the pleasant doorman, and entered the elegant building. He only hoped that playing the role of Jim was all the noble deed required. For surely it was a presumptive to expect an honest Scot to pretend an appreciation for American Football.
CHAPTER TWO
Clive Owen in a kilt! Were they kidding?
Grace had to focus on breathing and walking or she was going to end up on the sidewalk from either lack of oxygen or the inability to put one foot in front of the other.
She couldn’t believe her luck. In fact, she never remembered having any luck at all, and if this was Karma’s way of making up for a lifetime of neglect, Grace was going to take it—gladly!
The talent agency had promised, if the guy she’d chosen wasn’t available, they would send a suitable replacement. All she’d insisted on was, whoever he was, he had to be able to pull off a Scottish accent. Ever since she’d heard the news that Patience was engaged, she’d been kicking herself for telling her family she was dating a Scotsman. At the time, it had been a way to make her older sister just a little jealous—something that never happened, ever—but when Grace realized she was going to have to produce this imaginary man, she’d wished she’d described him as a boring, bookish guy who lacked any social graces.
But not anymore. For once in a very long time, she was glad of the mistake she’d made.
She took another peek at him when he stood aside for her to enter the country club ahead of him.
Yep. Clive Owen in a kilt.
No. Clive Owen with a five o’clock shadow and shoulder length hair, in a kilt. A little thrill shot up through her and pinged every chakra along its way.
Patience Cunningham, eat your heart out.
The Scot offered her his arm and they followed the signs to the Cunningham/Forrester Event and she realized, besides the strange looks his kilt attracted, her “date” was moving kind of slowly. He checked out the fancy lighting like he’d never seen the inside of a nice restaurant before. Then his attention swung back to her and she gazed into those sweet green eyes for a drawn out second before he gave a wink. And it occurred to her he might be walking slowly on her account. Maybe he’d noticed the way her ankles wobbled on the heels that, though they were three inches high, only brought the top of her head up to his shoulder.
That thrill started pinging through her again and she shivered.
“Are ye chilled, lass?”
She shook her head and decided it would be safer if she stopped gawking at him.
They stepped through a wide doorway with thick rounded walls and came face to face with her family. And just like that, the pleasantness was over. People were clustered as they usually were. The Entitled, or the money-grubbers as she liked to call them, milled around the money-handlers—the Lawyers. The money-handlers smiled and nodded and tried to keep the grubbers from bothering the money-makers—the Oil Men.
Home. Sickeningly-Sweet. Home.
It turned her stomach to see that all the stations were exactly as they’d always been. She was the odd man out, but that was the one thing she could be proud of.
“There’s Grace,” her aunt Mary called out, like everyone had been looking for her or something.
There was always a snide edge to Mary’s words. But the slight curl to her nose temporarily disappeared when she got a look at Clive Owen’s lookalike. She reluctantly broke away from Daddy’s lawyer, Anthony, and hurried forward like she was the official family greeter.
“You can’t b
e Grace’s date.” She slid diamond encrusted fingers around Jim’s elbow and tried to tug him away.
He stared at the woman like he thought she’d lost her mind and pulled his arm up out of Mary’s grasp and held that big, fluffy, pirate sleeve in the air like he thought she might attack it if he didn’t.
With his arm still raised, he turned to look at Grace like he was begging her to save him from an out of control dog. But somewhere in the middle of that look of horror on his face, he managed to sneak in another wink.
“Sorry, Jim,” she said and dragged his arm back down to his side. “Let me introduce you to my aunt Mary.” It took everything she had not to laugh at her aunt’s red face. “Mary Vandergriff, this is…uh…Jim.”
“Madam,” he gave Mary a curt nod. “Ye’re correct. I am nay her date. I’m Grace’s besotted suitor.” He slipped an arm around Grace’s waist and gently pulled her closer. And no matter how romantic it may have seemed, she suspected he was getting ready to use her as a shield between him and Mary.
She didn’t blame him. Mary was just as passively aggressive as Grace’s dad, and it wasn’t pleasant to be around either one of them. Whatever kind thing they said was usually a thinly veiled insult, and Grace had spent the first half of her twenty-five years recognizing it, and the other half concentrating on becoming a different sort of person.
It was like any other form of abuse, really. She just had to make sure the circle was broken with her. And if she never had kids, she wouldn’t have to worry about passing on the trait.
She took pity on Jim and stepped between him and her aunt. “Don’t mind Jim. He’s my biggest fan. Can’t trust a word he says.”
The actor frowned down at her. But what had he expected her to do, fan herself in the wake of his flattery? They were in the South, yes. But she was no simpering southern belle.
“All right,” Mary said and stepped back. “Good luck winning over her daddy, Jim. I don’t think he’ll be too impressed by your skirt.” Her excuse for a pleasant smile was replaced by an outright sneer, and Grace was embarrassed she’d had to expose the guy to the nasty woman. But she was paying him for his time with a big old bonus planned to cover all the unpleasantness ahead. It was almost enough to soothe her conscience.
