by L. L. Muir
That might well change, of course, once she exacted her revenge on the man responsible for Denny’s death…
CHAPTER TWO
Culloden Moor, 2 a.m. Present day…
I am Scotland.
Laid low beneath the soil, I’ve become the land itself. My bones and flesh have fed the ground I should never have stood upon. And finally… Finally, I can leave this company of Highlanders I never should have known.
Connor Gray’s spirit lingered on the battlefield and stared at the stone three paces away from him. Mixed Clans were the fading words engraved on the only headstone he would ever have claim to. Of course, if he’d been killed and buried at sea, as he had once expected to be, there would have been no grave marker at all.
If… If… If…
After nearly three centuries, he expected to have found peace with his foolishness and moved on to God’s judgement of him. But still he stood among the ghosts of honorable men, as if he were one of them—when he was as much a pretender as James Stuart and his son.
For a single day, he’d allowed himself to play soldier, like some laddie. Only he’d had the misfortune to play it on a real battlefield. And now the witch, Soncerae, stood before him offering him a few days of mortality to prove himself a second time.
Had she forgotten he had never been a hero in the first place?
Through the years of interacting with her there, when she’d visited the battlefield and bonded with Culloden’s 79, he was sure she would have accepted who he was, and what he wasn’t. But there she stood, treating him the same as the rest.
Poor lassie. She was in for a rude reminder.
Soni turned her head in his direction as if she’d heard his thoughts. Standing with her back to her mystical bonfire and a pulsing, wavering ring of green light swirling ‘round her, just off the ground, she was a sight to behold.
“Connor Gray!” She beckoned him to her, silent again until he came close. “Are ye ready to prove to yerself that ye’re as brave as the rest?”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Any man can be brave, lass. All he needs is a pair of ballocks and a strong spine, aye? Honorable is another thing altogether. And if ye send me on this quest, the only thing I plan to prove is that I’ll not be bloody stupid a second time.”
The wee lassie lowered her chin and frowned. “Ye won’t take this last chance to perform a noble deed? Earn a final good mark before ye meet yer maker?”
He snorted again. “Brave deeds be damned. The prince be damned. I’ll not pretend to be what I am not. But what I am…is ready to be done with these heroic bastards. Three centuries, I have watched the women parading across the moor, and I will spend my two days getting my hands on as many of them as I can. So, Soni? Knowing that, will ye still offer me mortality?”
She nodded once. “Aye. I will. But I wonder why ye confessed now, risking yer two days. For what if I’d have denied ye?”
Connor blinked at her for a moment, confused. Then the answer came to him. “I ken ye well enough, lass, to understand that ye suffer a similar longing, aye? To feel another’s arms around ye?” He nodded pointedly at the Cameron memorial where Simon McLaren sat on his belligerent backside.
As if he’d heard every word, the big blond turned to face them, but he remained where he was.
“Tell me, how was McLaren able to embrace ye, lass? Are there secrets I must ken before ye send me away?”
Soni shrugged. “When emotions run strong, Connor, anything is possible.”
He nodded, and glanced once more at the big man. “Tell me, when will the quickening take place?”
Soni laughed lightly. “It’s already begun. If ye’re determined to go yer own way—”
“I am.” An icy, heavy raindrop pelted his arm like a steal ball, and he gasped, then laughed when just as suddenly, the pain of it was gone. “The quickening—”
“Is done.”
He searched her eyes for any sign of teasing, then dared to grin. The wind and rain that impacted none of the others, including Soni, took out its full fury on him, and he couldn’t have enjoyed it more.
“And where would Connor Gray like to start searching for conquests?”
He shook his dripping head. “Auch, lass. I’ll be starting right here.” And with that, he hopped over the green ring, wrapped his arms around her, and tilted her to the side. “Look at me. The envy of Simon McLaren, and nothing he can do to stop me.” He gave the wee lass a fast, hard kiss she wouldn’t be forgetting in a long while. Then he looked up to see the furious ghost of McLaren moving as swiftly across the grass as the wind itself, with nary any help from his legs. It was a frightening sight, indeed, and the remainder of Culloden’s 79 took notice. But since there was nothing the blond man could do—for no ghost would dare come between the witch and her protective ring of green—Connor winked at the angry man, landed another kiss on Soni’s mouth, then lifted her back to her feet again.
McLaren drew near and the traitorous ring of protection dissolved into nothing! There was no time to step away from the lass. McLaren was already upon him. But what could a ghost do to a mortal man?
Connor put his hands on his hips and laughed into the taller man’s face.
The big arm recoiled and struck out for Connor’s chin. And if he’d thought the stinging bite of a raindrop was shocking, it was but a kiss compared with the impact of an angry fist against his jaw. Lights flashed behind his eyes, and a sudden numbness was all too fleeting, for real pain shot through his teeth.
His next surprise was the ground rising up to whack his arse.
The blond’s left arm came around to send him in the opposite direction, but the large fist moved cleanly through him, barely stirring the air. The reprieve, however, wasn’t something Connor could trust. If McLaren had a moment’s pause, he might muster up enough emotion to connect with him again. And because Connor didn’t want to spend his precious two days unconscious, he leapt to his feet and backed away.
“Soni? Wherever ye planned to send me, I’m prepared to go now.”
“But ye said—”
“Never mind that. I’ll not find any lasses at this hour on the moor, now will I?”
Soni laughed. “Besides me, ye mean?”
Simon McLaren growled at her, then took a step closer to Connor.
“Have pity, lass!” Connor backed around the grand fire of white flames, McLaren stalking him every step of the way.
She sighed. “Fine then. I’ll come for ye in two days’ time—at most.”
“Whatever ye say.”
“And Connor?”
“Aye?” He stopped and gave her his attention while bracing himself for another blow.
“Ye’re an honorable man, whether ye wish it or no.”
He shook his head. The lass didn’t understand him as much as she thought she did. “Saying it doesn’t make it so, lassie. But thank ye all the same.”
McLaren loomed close and grinned, as if sensing impending success.
Connor didn’t dare look away from him. “Soncerae? What are ye waitin’ for?”
“My uncle, Wickham. I expect him back any moment—”
“Lass! I’ll go anywhere ye wish, as long as I can go now!” McLaren took another swing at Connor’s ribs, and though his fist went cleanly through just as it had the last time, he could have sworn he felt it stirring his vitals. “Soni!” If she didn’t send him immediately, he would have to consider apologizing, and Connor Gray did not apologize. To do so would lessen a man like him.
“Quit yer whingin’.” The uncle’s voice hissed in his ear a heartbeat before he appeared Connor’s side.
After witnessing the disappearance of Watson less than an hour ago, Connor reckoned he knew what needed to be done. So he turned and laid hold to the man’s arm as the other quickened ghost had done. Only Soni showed no signs of participating—which was likely a lucky thing, or McLaren’s rage might have been the second death of him.
“In a hurry, are we?” Wickham took hold
of Connor’s other arm as well.
“Aye, or I’ll be dead again before I can begin!”
His pronouncement fell flat inside a strange silence, as if he’d stepped into a small closet. The sounds of the wind and rain were gone along with the violent, looming form of Simon McLaren. Then just as suddenly, the closet was gone. His ears picked up distant sounds again, which included…the musical laughter of many females…
CHAPTER THREE
“Ye wanted lasses a’plenty, and so yer wish is granted.” Though Wickham was nowhere to be found, his voice cut so clearly through the night air he might as well have been standing a mere foot in front of Connor. “But unless ye’d like to be deposited at the devil’s own door, ye’d best keep yer hands off Soncerae.”
The strange man laughed then, and the color of the laughter did not bode well. In fact, Connor wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been deposited on some wee isle in the Hebrides populated by nothing more than a colony of sea lions—females all. Or had the merriment he’d imagined been the chatter of geese?
His ears strained to hear it again, but all laughter had died away, replaced by the clopping of horses, the rattle of carriage wheels and harness, and the high strains of a violin. He turned to find the corner of a large mansion, but the view of the yard was completely obscured by a tall, immaculately trimmed bush in the shape of a tall pyramid, with a ball beneath. A topiary, he believed it was called.
After so many years on the wild moor, it was more than passing strange to suddenly find himself face to face with a whimsically manicured shrubbery. But it sounded as if all the excitement was on the far side, so he stepped around the creation and came face to face with the back of a buggy—and not the sort the security guards used to scurry around on the battlefield. This buggy had been taken straight out of the 19th century, complete with delicate wheels, a soft leather boot on the rear—for storing baggage—and a pair of fine horses at the head.
Actual horses.
It had been quite some time since he’d seen a horse, let alone smelled one. And even longer since he’d been near a large beast that hadn’t been terrified by his presence. But the matched pair of bays seemed to sense him not at all. And if they did, they didn’t mind the smell of him.
And that thought drew his attention back to his own body, and what state he’d been restored to.
He lifted his arm and sniffed. Nothing pungent there. In fact, he smelled much like he had after a long swim, if he remembered aright. A good perusal of his kilt and coat surprised him pleasantly as he seemed to be dressed out for burial, his garb looking clean enough to meet God Almighty.
The jabot tied around his neck and sitting upon his chest was as fluffy and white as the first day he’d purchased it—well, stolen it—and hadn’t been that white since. In fact, for nearly three centuries, it had been smeared with enough mud and blood that no one could have guessed its original color.
The velvet of his fine short coat was green again. He’d nearly forgotten the color as it had always seemed a muddled gray on the moor. But no. He remembered now. When he’d first purchased—acquired it, he might have blended in easily with a thick stand of Douglas Fir.
His kilt below was equally clean. The pleats might have been made by his own mother had she not been long dead. The black of his boots held such a high sheen he looked around to see what great spotlight must be shining down upon him, but he found only flames. Torches burned along the front of the grand mansion as if the occupants inside had never heard of a house catching fire. And wee lanterns hung from the front corners of at least twenty carriages all lined up from Hell to Wednesday.
Where the blazes am I?
Curiosity ate at him, since the house was in no way familiar. But curiosity was secondary. After all, he’d been promised plenty of lasses. And if there were, indeed, as many as he hoped, he was determined to get a move on, as there were only two days in which to sample them all.
The wide front doors opened and the tinkle of female laughter escaped again, as if taunting him. Come and find us.
How could he possibly resist?
He took three steps across the gravel and stopped to cock an ear. But he heard no seals barking. If this were a trick, and the lasses inside ended up being selkies, he could hardly complain. For selkies would have the same pair of days in which to seduce their victims back to the water’s edge—and he’d be long gone before they could drown him!
He chuckled. He hadn’t thought about selkies since he was a boy, when he’d searched a hundred caves for selkie skins. He couldn’t have known how that experience would help him later in life…
Of course, he’d long since given up on superstition and fairy tales, but he’d play along if need be. For if a house full of lasses wanted to seduce him, he was determined not to resist.
Two liveried young men, in powdered wigs no less, stood to either side of the doorway. Their brows rose in unison at Connor’s approach, but neither moved to prevent him from entering. A fine sign, that.
Crossing the threshold brought him immediately into a draft of warm air and only then did he realize how cool it had been outside. The warmth felt lovely. In fact, all sensation was appreciated. And like happy dog, he would roll about on the ground if his senses weren’t luring him deeper into the fine house.
A crier stepped up to him and offered a bow—or at least he started to do so, but he pulled up sharply and gave Connor a frown. “Forgive me, sir.” He bent forward again. “I assume you are Lord Gray, Lady Grant’s cousin?”
He smirked, happy to assume the role Soni had presumably arranged for him to play. “I am.”
“Very good, sir. I shall announce you.”
Connor pushed the fellow out of the way and strode past. “Nae need.” He simply followed the sound of laughter. Another pair of doors stood open to the right and he stepped through as easy as he pleased. After all, he’d learned long ago that people will treat a man as he expected to be treated. How he bore himself in public had helped him through many a scrape in his line of work.
So he became Lord Gray.
At the top of a half a dozen marble steps, he paused and surveyed the massive ballroom below. But he glanced back when the crier cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, my lord.” The crier bowed again. “But Lady Grant has instructed me to announce everyone.” And before Connor could argue, the man shouted over the sound of the orchestra. “Lord Miles Gray, of Inverurie!”
Inverurie? How the bloody hell did the man ken he was from Inverurie? But Miles? Why could he not be Connor?
“Miles! How wonderful of you to come!” A grandly dressed woman of fifty years or more stood at the bottom of the steps in a sparkling gold gown and held out her hand as if she expected him to hasten to her and kiss it.
Connor swaggered down the stairs as casually as he liked and reached the woman—supposedly this Lady Grant—just as her arm dipped. He’d made her wait long enough, he reckoned, so he took her gloved hand and pressed his lips to the back of her fingers. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to wait long to press his lips to something younger.
She batted her eyes at him like a debutante. “So glad you could come, cousin,” she said. “I was surprised to hear I had a relative in town, especially a Scottish one.”
Connor answered with a smile. “I am just as surprised to be here, cousin. I’ve heard of cosplays, of course, but I ne’er expected to attend one.”
Her brows crooked together. “Cosplays? Is that a Scottish term? I fear I am unfamiliar with it, sir.”
That didn’t surprise him. It seemed to be a farce enjoyed by the younger set. “Perhaps an American term, then. Playing in costume, ye might say.” He looked around the ballroom, noted more than a few empire waists on the women and the coats and tails on the men. “Is yer theme that of Jane Austen, then?”
“Theme?” The woman gestured toward the flower and ribbon festoons hanging on the walls, above the doors, and along the orchestra’s balcony. “The theme is white and
gold.” Her smile strained. “Obviously.”
“White and gold.” He noticed most of the ladies’ gowns were indeed either gold, some shade of white, or a combination of the two. So he nodded his head dutifully. He’d hardly noticed the colors for they seemed no more interesting than the muted colors of a world seen through ghostly eyes. But after a glimpse of rosy lips and bright green eyes flashing by on the dance floor, he had an even greater appreciation for his mortal vision.
He watched closely while the young woman laughed with her dance partner. In a possible act of defiance to the gold and white theme, she wore a dainty necklace of emeralds that matched her eyes. The next time she faced him, she lowered her lashes and blushed a rosy pink, making her the most colorful lass in the room.
Her white teeth bit into a lower lip so plump he worried it might burst like a juicy berry.
That one. He would definitely taste that one.
He dragged his attention away from the lass when he realized he was being introduced to Lady Grant’s husband. He copied the bow and played along. After all, the woman had gone to an enormous expense to create such and antiquated atmosphere, the least he could do was patronize her. Besides, if he made much of a commotion, he might be kicked out, which he couldn’t allow—especially since Wickham was right about the plethora of lasses about.
One to every gentleman, in fact, or so it seemed at first glance. A meticulously planned soiree if ever there was one. But he would suffer no compunction over hoarding half a dozen or more for himself.
The colorful lass moved past him again, walked around one man, then returned to another in the steps of a two-hundred-year-old country dance that was now only seen in movies. He watched the steps and tried to identify the pattern.
Lady Grant noticed him noticing. “Not to worry, sir. I’m certain no one expects you to dance in your uniform. After all, what if your skirts flew up?” She and her husband had a hearty laugh, and though Connor would have liked to argue that a kilt is never to be called a skirt, the green-eyed lass moved close again and he was reminded why he should swallow the offense.
