by Cathy MacRae
Lasses and men. A chilling combination at the best of times. Laila wanted to shake her head. Shake him. “Why must ye preen and pose and fight to prove yer worth? Does no one value calm strength and kindness?”
Patrick sent her a startled glance, and she realized she’d spoken aloud. Heat warmed her ears. “I am sorry. As a healer, I see the results of too many fights that seem pointless. I often wonder why men fight.”
“To get … . To show … .” Patrick sighed. “I dinnae know. I just know I wasnae counted among the braw men of our village, and it… hurt.” His fist burrowed against the center of his chest.
Laila let silence simmer for a few moments, then asked softly, “Did ye get yer wish? To be brave?”
The man’s gaze seemed to turn in on himself, a trait she’d seen in men mortally wounded, contemplating their lives in those very last moments. When he spoke, his voice whispered like autumn leaves scraping along a pathway before a ragged breeze.
“We’d marched for days. The night before the battle, we slogged through mud and snow all night, without sleep or food or rest. We were meant to catch the government forces unawares before dawn, but the plan went awry and we were turned back before we reached the enemy. Exhausted, we returned to Inverness. Some men tried to get a bit of rest. Others headed out in search of food.” Patrick stared at his hands turned palm-up in his lap. “I was too tired to move further.”
He sighed, a brittle sound, but his words gained a bit of strength. “We mustered on the moor not long after, bleary-eyed and hungry. In two rows, we faced the government troops across a muddy bog as sleet bit into our skin. My regiment was Lord Kilmarnock’s Footguards, placed on the second line. We waited and waited for the command to attack whilst the cannon and grapeshot felled men all around us.” His eyes, bleak with memory, lifted. “I wasnae brave. I was too frightened to move.”
Patrick’s unfamiliar words brushed past her. Canon. Regiment. Grapeshot. She saw his anguish. “It takes bravery to overcome the urge to flee.”
His gaze dropped again and he tilted his head as if considering her words. “Mayhap. Though it felt like despair to remain in place, and cowardice to hope our line would not be required to advance into the slaughter.”
“Brave men feel afraid. Even the mightiest warrior faces battle with fear in his heart. It makes him alert, focused. But to continue when things look bleakest takes confidence in one’s self and in the reason he fights.”
“I dinnae truly know why I was there. What could I, a shoemaker, contribute? The other men were right. Why should I believe I could help put a king on a throne?”
Laila canted her head. A king? News, indeed. “Why did ye believe that?”
Patrick’s barking laughter startled her with its derisive sound. “Because I listened to the men who skillfully wove their tales of oppression and murder. And because they at last included me as one of them.” He relaxed. “And because I’d one glass of uisge beatha too many to think straight when I went home to pack my gear.”
“Water of life? We use it as an elixir for colic and other gastric upsets.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And occasionally in the men’s ceremonies. Perhaps often.”
“Things arenae so different here, are they?” Patrick asked, a look of hope on his face.
Laila’s breath caught. ’Twas clear Patrick was of neither her place nor time. She believed in the fae—had dealings with them, in fact—but others of her clan would consider it blackest magic, heresy to the church if they thought him different, couldn’t explain his clothing or his weapon. She risked her life to help this man, but she could not turn him out on the road in the morning as she’d planned. Alone, trusting, he would perish quickly—likely at the hands of an angry mob.
She let her breath out in a rush of decision. Holding his gaze, she leaned forward slightly. “Tell me where ye are from, Patrick. I must know more about ye to be able to help. The place and the year, please.”
* * *
Place and year? Mother Mary, how does she know? Patrick faltered, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as if he’d swallowed several pints too many of water. Or whisky.
“I am from a place in northern Scotland called Perth,” he ventured, hoping she’d forget she’d asked the year.
She hadn’t. Laila gave a brief nod then raised her eyebrows, inviting the rest of his answer.
He swallowed past the burn of dread in his throat. “In the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and forty-six.”
Her eyebrows stretched further upward then relaxed. A tiny grin gave Patrick a small sense of relief.
“’Tis good to know our people survive so long,” Laila quipped.
“Och, and even longer … .” He kicked himself mentally for his blunder. “What year is this?” he ventured.
“If ye ask our priest, he will tell ye ’tis the year of our Lord, nine hundred fifty-six. To the rest of us, ’tis the second year of King Máel Coluim mac Domnaill who became king when his cousin, Constantine abdicated to become a monk. I often wonder if our people will see the next hundred years.” A smile ghosted about Laila’s lips. “With the troubles affecting us all, ’tis a wonder human kind survives another thousand years—or so. We still reel from the Viking invasions. Our names and customs reflect our mixed heritage.”
Laila settled more comfortably in the straw. “I think ye should tell me your whole story, lad.”
It was the word lad that soothed him. It would have been nice for her to refer to him in a more intimate manner, to indicate she had a personal interest in him. But he had to admit it would have only flustered him, and he already worried enough about many things. His decision to become a soldier. The distress he was sure to have caused his father. Accepting the wee witch’s offer. And his immortal soul.
“I have already told ye about the battle,” he began, still a little hesitant to tell the beautiful healer everything. Her current interest could be simple curiosity, a healer’s quest for knowledge. But what would she do when she discovered his many faults? Would she despise him?
“I dinnae believe ye have told me everything,” she murmured. “Begin where ye left off—the middle of the battle, I believe.”
Patrick took a deep breath, more to give his words strength than to bolster his courage. He disliked sounding weak, and he did not wish to disappoint Laila.
“Once the command came to advance, the front line spilled across the field. Our soldiers clashed with the government forces, fighting fiercely. Hundreds died within minutes.
“Lord George Murray, so proud and determined upon his horse as he charged into battle, fled back on foot to those of us in the second line. We followed him as he returned to the stramash, taking us and two other regiments to support the front lines. We could see what lay ahead. But still, we followed.”
Patrick shook his head. “Nothing could be done—all was lost. Our soldiers were destroyed by the government troops, and we turned about and cut our way back, swords in hand.”
He forced a half-smile to his lips. “I dinnae make it.”
Her look was intent, but not horrified, and Patrick breathed more easily. “The wound on my chest—” He broke off, glancing at the spot where no injury lingered. “Well, that was my blood, as ye thought.” He fingered the cloth. “She healed me.”
“Healed ye?” Laila’s eyes narrowed. “From such a wound?”
“Och, nae,” he hastened to explain. “I died that day. I have been a ghost for nearly three hundred years.”
The healer tilted her head. “Ye died in seventeen forty-six?”
Patrick nodded.
“And ye were a ghost for three hundred years?”
“Two hundred and seventy, actually,” he demurred, uncomfortable once again.
Laila released a whoosh of breath. “I believe many things, Patrick. Many that ye dinnae understand and even more that my clansmen dinnae dare to accept as true. Yer story, however, stretches my imagination a wee bit.”
Downcast, Patr
ick dropped his gaze again to his lap. How could she possibly believe in a time she’d never known—never heard of? He’d expected too much.
“How did ye come here?”
Patrick jerked his head up, startled. She still wished to speak with him? After telling her what she should consider to be complete nonsense—or worse?
He stared into her dark eyes, noticing the gold flecks in the brown depths. He was certain she was the kindest lass he’d ever met. Against his better judgement, he told her the part that should damn him forever.
“I accepted a challenge from a witch.”
Her gaze did not waver.
“Sixteen years ago.” He frowned. “Sixteen of my years.” It still didn’t sound right. He shook his head and gave up trying to determine time. “A wee lass named Soni visited the battlefield with her parents when she was but a bairn. There are … were … seventy-nine ghosts who rose together after the battle, bound by our dissatisfaction with those who sacrificed us against the enemy that day. This lass could see us. Speak to us. Over the years, she befriended us, and we looked forward to her visits. Then, this summer solstice, Soni arrived with a challenge. She told us she’s distressed because we havenae moved on—that we still grumble about the moor. We were each offered the chance to perform a heroic deed. If we succeed, we will be allowed to speak to Prince Charlie. And then rest in peace.”
It was this last that had sealed the bargain for him. Though he wondered if he would be allowed to rest in peace after following a witch. It seemed at odds with his faith, and Patrick was fairly certain that, if he’d asked his priest, the man would have counseled him to stay away from such folly. But he craved peace. Not the half-rest, half-rising experiences of the past centuries, fraught with mud and tourists, fear and despair. But the true rest of the deserving. Except, was he deserving?
“What is yer deed?” Laila asked. “What must ye do? Mayhap I can help.”
Elation flooded Patrick’s heart. The lass—instead of reviling him, or worse, laughing—offered to help! He knew he’d never seen the like of such a bonnie lass, so caring, so—brave.
“I cannae allow ye to help me,” Patrick said, mourning every word. “’Tis enough others may think my soul in peril for accepting help from a witch. I cannae let that happen to you.”
Laila’s eyes twinkled in the torchlight. “Och, dinnae fash! What yer Soni offered was out of the kindness of her heart, not some plot to ensnare yer soul.” She canted her head to the side. “Do ye think the evil ones are so desperate?” She fluttered her fingers at him. “Man is quite capable of putting his own soul in harm’s way. There is scarcely a need to seek ye a’purpose.”
Patrick sighed, admitting the accuracy of her statement. “The truth is, I dinnae know what my challenge is. Only that I will be given an opportunity to do a heroic deed and a day, mayhap two, to see it done.” He scrunched his face, attempting humor as he peered about the neat, weather-tight stable, its occupants dozing contentedly. “I dinnae see anyone in danger here.”
Laila’s sweet laugh lightened his heart, almost convincing him he was invincible, weightless, free. A smile tugged at his lips and he feasted his eyes on the beauty before him.
The door to the barn crashed open, and Laila leapt to her feet, shock whitening her skin. Three men charged through the doorway, a torch flickering in one man’s fist.
“Here she is!” They surrounded Laila, jerking her hands behind her back, binding them tight before Patrick could do more than blink.
A fourth man, older, wrinkled distress in his features, hung in the doorway, wringing his hands.
“I couldnae stop them,” the older man whined, eyes lingering on Laila’s face. She shot him an aggrieved look.
“Ye are the head of this clan. And yet ye allow these …” her gaze swept the other three with disdain. “These trouble-makers to tell ye how to handle yer own daughter?”
“I had no choice,” he replied as a shudder rippled across his shoulders. “My life is forfeit if I succor a witch.”
CHAPTER SIX
Patrick’s jaw dropped. A witch? No wonder she dinnae fear what I’ve done. Confusion drew his brows together. She was kind to me—helped me. Is she truly a witch? He stole a look at Laila. Her eyes sparked angrily, but sorrow and perhaps despair flashed amid other emotions he could not name.
Two of the men shoved roughly at her shoulders, forcing her around. She took a stumbling step toward the door. Flinging a last look at him, she uttered two words before they hauled her into the night.
“No pistol.”
Cold air blasted through the open door, but Patrick ignored the chill, mulling over her words. No pistol? Of course she had no pistol. Had never heard of one until he … .
A warning, then? A reminder that he had what none of them did.
A request? Surely she did not expect him to fire it? Use it to save her?
They burned witches, and he doubted it was different in Laila’s time than in his.
“Who are ye? And what were ye doing with my daughter?” The older man’s voice summoned the merest hint of command.
Patrick tore his gaze from the empty doorway, startled to find Laila’s father standing close. “I lost my way and she offered shelter. Will ye not speak for her?” he asked.
The man drew his cloak close about his frame, as though to make himself smaller, or perhaps ward off a blow. “I cannae help her further. She chose her life and must live it.”
Patrick snorted. “Die for it, ye mean. Is she truly a witch?”
“’Tis for the clan to decide!” the man declared, then shook his cape free, the mud-stained hem swirling about his feet as he strode to the door. Before Patrick could stop him, he was gone.
’Tis a fine kettle Soni’s left me to stew in! I dinnae know how she expects me to save a witch from burning! His short laugh was mirthless. Fearful. Me? Protect a witch?
He crept to the door, half-expecting to find the night sky rent with the blood-stain of Laila’s pyre. But though a number of torches pulsed in the dark, they appeared not to emanate from a single source.
Patrick’s shadow leapt at his feet, growing shorter as warmth from a lit brand slid across the side of his face. Two men hefting a pair of torches stalked past, heading for the gathering taking place just ahead. Patrick shoved his pistol to the back of his waistband, hiding it beneath his jacket, and darted after them.
“Wait!”
Two pairs of eyes swept over him in a cursory glance, their attention split between the ruckus ahead and the oddly dressed man next to them. The lighter-haired man motioned for Patrick to join them, though the leaner man with dark hair scowled and muttered something that didn’t quite reach Patrick’s ears.
Unused to the ready inclusion, Patrick leapt forward, hurrying to keep in step. “Is she really a witch?”
The second man sent another scowl his way, making Patrick feel much the outsider. Heat flushed his cheeks.
“’Tis what her fool of a da says.”
“He had no choice,” the blond man retorted. “Not with the evidence before him.”
“What evidence was that?” Patrick wanted desperately to know.
“Why, the dragon, of course.”
* * *
Halting on the edge of the gathering crowd, Patrick’s newest acquaintances argued the merits of the dragon. Torn between the need for comfort from danger in numbers and the desire to fade into the darkness and away from whatever madness Soni had dropped him into the middle of, Patrick lingered, one ear primed for the rustle of dragon wings, the other listening to the grumbles around him.
“The auld dragon has returned!” raged an old man, his eyes wide, glowing with fanatical fervor in the bobbing torchlight.
“Harald gave ‘im a good clip with his sword,” chimed another.
“That witch spoiled his aim! She consorts with all manner of fae! Burn her!”
Patrick startled at the cries erupting around him.
“Burn the witch!”
&
nbsp; “Send her and the devil’s spawn back to hell!”
She’s a healer. And she was nice to me. Patrick winced, drawing back as though he’d been struck. I cannae fight a raving mob! His glance darted over the men—and a few women—who formed the seething crowd raging for Laila’s blood. Will they not give her a chance to speak?
“Jeddart Justice,” he spat.
“What’s that?” The lean dark man stepped closer.
“Will ye not try the lass before ye punish her?” Patrick asked, unsure from where his bold question arose. “Or will ye condemn her without a trial?”
“Some would say a witch doesnae deserve a trial,” the man ventured.
“A witch deserves to burn!” his lighter-haired companion declared.
Dread trickled up Patrick’s arms and legs like the unwelcome sensation of a flame moving slowly over his skin. “She was kind to me,” he murmured unhappily. “Is there anyone here who would help her?”
The dark man eyed him narrowly. “Ye could attract attention with words like that,” he noted. “A few may sympathize, but others will claim she bewitched ye. And ye will burn as well.”
* * *
The crowd’s angry cries tore at Laila as fully as did the hands that tugged her back and forth, keeping her off-balance, unable to draw her frightened wits together. She fought to remain calm, but as the seam on her cloak ripped, so did her control.
Ormarr! The cry sprang from her throat, from the dark depths of her fear. As she summoned the dragon, she gasped in horror at what she’d done. For no matter his injury, she knew he would not fail her.
Two men dragged her to a hewn tree stump which could have been a dais to display her on, or the beginnings of a pyre. She remained on her feet, but barely, swaying from shock and abuse. Her shoulders were wrenched and sore, and she was certain her arms sported bruises, while her legs stood as steady as mud after a spring rain.
Torches stabbed the ground in a perimeter about her and their heat caused a trickle of sweat to dampen the back of her gown. Her cloak hung unevenly about her shoulders, its seams gaping like the mouth of a drunken lout. Laila shivered, terror springing across her skin in tiny bumps as it slid icily through her veins.
