by L. L. Muir
“Nay.” Lachlan bit one side of his lip and she realized he was enjoying himself, toying with the guy.
Not smart, with cops nearby. But there wasn’t a lot she could do. His hand basically had her pinned to the chair.
MacFarland grinned and she relaxed a little. At least he was enjoying having a mystery dangling in front of his nose like a carrot. He shook a finger at the Scot. “I signed the guest book. Is that how you learned my name?”
Lachlan shook his head slowly. “Nay.”
The guy tossed his hands in the air. “I give up. How do you know what I said at Culloden?”
“Auch, well, the impressive thing is that after hundreds of thousands of visitors—”
“That many?”
“In over two hundred seventy years, that I’d remember yer name and from whence ye hail.”
“Remember?” He grunted. “How did you even hear me? I’m not so sure I even said it out loud!”
“I remember, because so few sentiments uttered on the moor make much of an impression on the ghosts of soldiers. But every now and again, a man comes along who wishes he could have fought beside us, and means it.” It was his turn to shake a finger at MacFarland. “And aye, ye did say so aloud. We’re not mind-readers, ye ken.”
The lawyer’s mouth hung open and Harper wondered if the guy was going to buy Lachlan’s story, or if they were going to be laughed out of the office. But at least it would be a change from being kicked out.
MacFarland closed his mouth, swallowed, and became a lawyer again. “Let me get this straight, he said, and tapped the end of his pencil on a leather blotter, punctuating his points. “You’re telling me you’re a ghost from the Battle of Culloden Moor? In Scotland?” He leaned forward to take a long look at the jeans and t-shirt.
“I had to hide my plaid in this bag,” Lachlan said. “Her stepfather, the blackheart, arranged for a Golden Alert for an abductor in a kilt.”
“Amber Alert,” she corrected.
The man nodded, like he’d solved the mystery. “Oh, I see. So you are in trouble and you needed the ghost story to get past my secretary.”
“I do not tell tales, sir.”
MacFarland rose to his feet and Lachlan did too. Harper thought sitting tight was a better strategy. At least she might be able to get part of her story out before the cops arrived. And she’d know where her next few meals were coming from—until St. Clair found her and his lawyers came to her “rescue.”
But the guy didn’t call for security. He and the Scot seemed to be having some kind of staring contest that must have ended in a draw because they both lowered themselves back to their seats like a couple of bulls deciding not to lock horns.
“Seriously,” the man grinned, “how did you know what I said at Culloden? Is that monument hollow? Are there camera’s?” He glanced at her. “Do you know?”
Harper bit her bottom lip for a second, then looked at Lachlan, who nodded and sat back. Apparently, he wanted her to back up his story. And since he’d gotten them this far, she was going to do whatever he asked.
“He knows because…he really is a ghost from Scotland.” She’d even managed to say it with a straight face.
The man rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop smiling. “I don’t suppose you’d like to walk through that wall to prove it?” He pointed at the wall next to his secretary. She rolled her eyes and scribbled away.
Lachlan squeezed his own arm. “I’m afraid I’m temporarily mortal.”
“Mm hmm.” MacFarland took a deep breath and studied his desktop for a minute, then he nodded. “Okay, well, you were clever enough to get in here, so I’ll give you five minutes. That’s all I’ve got to spare today.” He checked his watch, then hit a timer on his desk. It started at 5:00 and counted down. Apparently, he gave a lot of people a five minute time limit.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Harper introduced herself again, adding her last name.
He wrote it down, even though the woman was already taking notes. “And is there an Amber Alert out for you, Harper?”
“Yes. But I’m twenty, not fifteen. My stepfather must have lied to the police.”
He nodded once. “Go on. But know that I will be calling the authorities when your five minutes are up. You can either use that time to get away, or you can keep talking.”
She chose to talk. It might be the last time she could be heard without someone shutting her up.
“My mother married this creep two and a half years ago. She was rich. He was younger than her. I believe he started poisoning her soon after that. She was seriously ill by Christmas. He would take her to doctors. At home, he’d talk about cancer even though they never found any. She kept getting worse.” It physically hurt to finally talk about it, but she didn’t have time to eek it out. “She died three months ago. St. Clair was pissed—”
“St. Clair is your stepfather?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.” He scribbled again.
“He was pissed when the will was read. Everything was left in a trust for me.”
MacFarland shook his head. “If he were capable of murder, and really wanted her money, he would forge another will and it would all go into probate. In Utah, a handwritten will is legal, with or without witnesses. And that dispute would most likely end in his favor, as the spouse.”
She shook her head. “He’s not a patient man. He’d kill me first if he thought the money would go directly to him. And there was a pre-nup. Can’t that represent my mother’s wishes? If they divorced, he got only what he brought to the marriage, which was a vehicle and not much else. It was all listed. They kept separate accounts, no matter how he insisted they not. I think that’s why he started poisoning her right away.”
“The pre-nup only shows her wishes if they’d divorced, not if she died and they were still on good terms. Autopsy?”
She shook her head. “He had her cremated too fast. I was out of town. He already had it done before I got back. I never got to see her, say goodbye…”
MacFarland absentmindedly shoved a box of tissue her way but kept writing. “And because she’d been under a doctor’s care, they didn’t have to call anyone but the mortuary.”
She nodded. “That’s what he said.”
He set his pencil down and looked at her, deadly serious. “And why are you here? You want a probate lawyer? That’s not me.” His smile returned. “But I guess a ghost from 18th century Scotland wouldn’t know there is a difference between lawyers.”
Harper glanced nervously at the timer and thought she’d better hurry and tell him the important part. “St. Clair is trying to have me committed to get control of my trust fund. He’s got a quack all lined up to claim I’m certifiable. Once he has my money in his pocket, he plans to kill me, make it look like an overdose. I heard him telling one of his goons.”
“Hearsay.”
Lachlan got to his feet.
The lawyer gestured for him to sit back down. “I assume you’re interested in my professional opinion. We can’t present hearsay to a judge.”
“A judge?” Harper tried not to get too excited, but her lungs overfilled and she was having a hard time exhaling.
“I assume this will end up before a judge. Just being honest here. Probate court is a bitch. That’s why I don’t practice probate law.” He looked pointedly at Lachlan.
The Scot shook his head. “A judge will never hear of it if we cannot keep the lass safe until she turns twenty-one next month.”
“Next month?” MacFarland pushed the notepad away and sent the pencil rolling after it. “If all you have to do is wait a month before you can access the money yourself, then do it. No lawyer fees that way. Just stay with a friend.”
“You don’t understand,” Harper said, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. “They’ve already killed my bodyguard. I got away, but today, they found me again and tried to get me into a van, but this guy stopped them. We’ve been shot at twice. And now there is an Amber Alert so they can g
et me separated from…” She nodded at Lachlan, not knowing what to call him. A few kisses didn’t make him her boyfriend or anything. Not after knowing him for only a few hours. And she wasn’t about to call him her bodyguard, in case the title was unlucky.
“Her protector,” Lachlan said. “The problem is, I won’t be around to protect her after another hour or two.”
The lawyer waved his hand like he was setting the Scot’s comment aside for the moment. “Shots fired? Was that near 7th east and fourth south?”
“It was. And we were at the library when they tried to force me into the van.”
The timer went off. The three of them stared at it. Finally, MacFarland turned it off, but her ears still rang.
He leaned forward, laced his fingers together, and exhaled. “I’ll need fifteen thousand for a retainer. But I will also put you in a safe place until—”
“Nay.” Lachlan flattened a hand against the top of the desk. “No charging the lass, Ewan MacFarland.” The men stared at each other in silence for half a minute. “Ye said it. At Culloden. I would have fought beside ye. Well, here is yer chance. Fight beside me. And if it happens that I am called back—”
MacFarland cocked his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You can’t still be trying to convince me you’re a ghost.” It seemed to tick him off that Lachlan was sticking with his story. But he’d stuck to it long enough already that Harper was starting to worry it was true.
“If I am called back,” the Scot repeated, “I’ll have yer vow that ye’ll see to the lass’s safety. That ye won’t take lightly the threat of St. Clair and his men. That ye’ll make well and sure that the blackheart never has the chance to harm her, out of revenge, even after it is settled.”
“My vow.” The man snorted again. “My vow…” He waved both hands like he was being pestered by a fly. “I’m afraid it just doesn’t work like that, Mr. McLean.”
Lachlan didn’t even look worried. “Yer ancestor, for whom ye were named, was pleased with yer pledge at Culloden. I’m certain he’d be pleased again to see ye prove yerself now.”
MacFarland pointed an accusing finger at the Scot’s head. “You’ve been talking to my wife!”
Lachlan shrugged one of those t-shirt stretching shoulders. “She’s a lovely woman. But those heels of hers were hardly fit for the moors. Next time ye come, she’ll need warm boots I think. But to answer the charge, no, I have never spoken with yer wife.”
“Then how do you know about the man I was named after? It’s nowhere on the internet.”
“MacFarland was there, at the cairn, when ye placed the wreath in his honor. He heard ye as well. He truly couldna been more pleased—”
“Look—”
“Short man. Hairless but for the great mustache that starts at one ear,” Lachlan pointed a finger at his own ear in demonstration, “crosses beneath his nose, and ends at the other. He was one of Lord Lewis Gordon’s. A brave man…who also bore the same birthmark on his backside. Did ye know that?”
The man’s head turned red and his hand dropped to his thigh but he stopped himself and set it back on the table. “I’m sure there is some way of knowing that. You’ve done your research, but you’ve said nothing that proves you’re a ghost. Now. Maybe if you could walk through that wall…”
“I’m afraid I find myself to be mortal at the moment. Perhaps later, if I’m still here after the sun has set.”
It was over. She’d been distracted, watching the men go back and forth, and hadn’t noticed that old familiar raincloud rolling in. Next, they’d be asked to leave.
MacFarland turned to her and his smile was more like a grimace.
Here it comes.
“Harper. I’m sorry. I’m not going to be able to help you. I can give you the name of a probate lawyer—”
Lachlan jumped to his feet and the woman in the corner squeaked. He leaned slightly forward and his fists opened and closed, opened and closed, like he was trying to control himself. MacFarland lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes but kept his butt in the chair.
“Ye must have proof? Fine, then. Though yer great grandsire would be more impressed if ye showed a bit of faith, aye?” He bent over and rested one hand on the desk, fingers spread. Then, with the other, he rolled the discarded pencil across the surface. But instead of stopping when it ran into his flattened hand, it rolled through it and out the other side.
Harper wasn’t aware she’d done anything at all until Lachlan hurried over to her where she had apparently backed up against the office door. She didn’t realize she’d left her chair, but she did remember feeling like she suddenly needed to be far, far away from that pencil…and that hand.
“I’m sorry, lass. Forgive me. Strange things seem to be possible when emotions are high, but I didn’t know that it would work. Look!” He pinched his hand, then held it up to her. “It feels real enough now, does it not?”
He wanted her to touch it?!
She shook her head. “I believe you.”
His worried gaze flew back and forth as he searched deep into her eyes. Then he stepped quickly away like he thought he might smell offensive or something. The devastated look on his face made her forget about anything but making it go away, so she stepped up to him and took a hold of his hands.
“I’m sorry. I was just…freaked out is all. I’m fine now. I am.” She wasn’t, though. Not by a long shot. But she thought if she concentrated really hard, she could keep from shaking.
He only looked a little relieved. Still unsure.
“So. You’re a ghost. You’ve been trying to tell me that all day, right? I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, but I didn’t want it to be true, you know?”
He smiled then. “Ye didn’t?”
“Of course not. I mean… Of course not.”
She was grateful when Mildred knocked her knobby knuckles on the desk to get their attention. MacFarland’s jaw looked like it might be permanently unhinged.
“Could you do that again, sir?” the woman said.
It didn’t work the second time, and the woman exchanged a look with her boss.
The man shook his head rapidly. “It was no magic trick, Milly. I was right here.” He looked still as shocked as Harper felt. She just hid it better.
“Well, it’s up to you, Ewan,” Mildred said, “but I’d waive your retainer.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Harper and Lachlan were led into a private lounge to take a breather while their new buddy, Ewan, made some phone calls. He’d promised not only to waive his retainer and represent her, but to keep her safe too. So he was working on the safe part.
Her gut told her not to trust anyone but Lachlan and to stay on her toes. But she and the lawyer now shared a secret that made her feel like there was a bond between them. Nothing dramatic, but a bond just the same—kind of like knowing someone’s ultimate secret, and them knowing yours. Maybe they could cause trouble for each other, sharing the fact that they had seen a ghost, spoke with one, made deals with one. It was the kind of story Dr. Quack would have loved to add to her list of mental illnesses.
There were two long leather couches that called out for her to lie down and rest while she had the chance. She glanced at Lachlan and he released her hand and nodded for her to go ahead. The soft white leather made no sound when she stretched out on the couch to the right. Her Scot sat at the far end of the other one, facing her, but he let his head fall against the wide back and closed his eyes.
She closed hers too, amazed she wasn’t more freaked out at being alone in the room with a guy who had just proven he was a ghost. But it was Lachlan. How could she not feel safe with him? Sure, they’d only known each other for half a day, but it seemed like a lifetime.
As her body relaxed, she sank deeper into the luxurious cushions. Unfortunately, her mind wandered back to that pencil. And a memory rose in her mind of the first time he’d held her close, behind that door in the half-abandoned building. I’ve been dead before, he’d said
, and she was swamped with an all too familiar sadness.
Lachlan had died. Just like her mother. Only, for some reason, he’d been allowed to come back. She could only imagine how great it would be if her mother could do the same. Even if it was only for a day.
“Lachlan?” She opened her eyes and stared at the coffered ceiling that was much like the one in her mother’s bedroom, once upon a time. The light of the sunset, coming through the panoramic windows, made it glow orange.
“Yes, Sweeting?” His voice was low and far too sexy for her own good.
“You’re really a ghost then?”
“Aye. Are ye terribly disappointed?”
Disappointed? Yeah, she was. It was almost as if he’d just died, but she was allowed to talk to him a little longer. If she was smart, she’d put a little distance between them so, when he did go away, she wouldn’t be devastated. But it was almost too late for that. He was the only good thing that had happened to her in three long, painful months. And it was possible he might be her last good memory ever.
She decided to ignore the question, afraid her answer might ruin what time they had left together. Instead, she asked him how he’d died.
“In battle. A bullet to the thigh stopped me. A bayonet finished me, as the enemy gave no quarter—took no prisoners. Surely ye’ve heard of the great Battle of Culloden Moor.”
“Uh, sorry. I don’t know Scottish history.” And whatever St. Clair might have tried to teach her, she’d ignored.
“Mmm.” He sounded pretty disappointed himself.
She looked over at him. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank ye, lass.” He forced a smile. “But it was long ago. The pain was long forgotten.”
“I remember you tried to tell me…that you’d died before.”
“Ah, so ye heard me.”
“Yeah, but I thought that I couldn’t have heard right.” She watched him for a few seconds. Sitting all alone on that couch. And with so little time left.
