by L. L. Muir
GERARD
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 15)
By L.L. Muir
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Lesli Muir Lytle
www.llmuir.weebly.com
Gerard © 2016 L.Lytle
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
DEDICATION
To Gerard Butler
…for the romance
you’ve inspired in us all,
and the exercise
you’ve given our hearts.
The world is a much
healthier place
with you in it.
BOOKS IN THE SERIES
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor
by L.L. Muir
1. The Gathering
2. Lachlan
3. Jamie
4. Payton
5. Gareth (Diane Darcy) 6. Fraser
7. Rabby
8. Duncan (Jo Jones) 9. Aiden (Diane Darcy) 10. Macbeth
11. Adam (Cathie MacRae)
12. Dougal
13. Kennedy
14. Liam (Diane Darcy)
15. Gerard
16. Malcolm (Cathie MacRae) coming soon!
A NOTE ABOUT THE GHOSTS
The Gathering should be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.
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.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Culloden Moor, night
It had happened too suddenly!
Only after Kennedy had disappeared from the moor, along with Soncerae’s strange uncle, did Gerard think to protest. He’d been distracted when the other man had been able to lay hands on Kennedy and not slip through her. And by the time Gerard had opened his mouth and taken a step, the two were gone!
Soni gave him a wink, then headed back to her bonfire with purpose in her stride, and he was left with empty air to argue with.
Was he the only one anxious to know what had happened to Nessa Kennedy and the man who had taken her from the moor in a blink of an eye, when even God Himself hadn’t managed to do so for the past two hundred sixty-nine years?
He had no problem trusting Soni, though she was only sixteen years of age. But trusting her dark uncle was more difficult. There was something unsettling about a man who could do such miraculous things without so much as a blink of his eye.
Grumbling his thoughts as he went, he wandered back into the midst of his fellow ghosts and waited with the rest, stomping at the rain puddles and having no more effect on them than the breeze.
Mortal again? For a day or two? Able to stomp puddles and send the rain splashing?
All fine and well. But what he truly wished for was the chance to feel and be felt. And the vague visage of a Scottish lass named Assa wavered before his mind’s eye.
Assa. From Dingwall. He remembered now. After the centuries, he should have forgotten such a small detail. But the short experience he’d shared with the young woman had never left him—or at least, not for long.
Assa, from Dingwall.
Though he would never mention it to another of the 79—for a certainty, they would mock him—he’d always had a sense that the woman was with him, somehow. As if he crossed her mind from time to time while she lived. And after a hundred years, when he still felt her watching over him, he reasoned she would have to be watching from Heaven Itself.
Did she wait for him?
If he accepted his challenge, and went forth from Culloden, to perform some heroic deed, he’d be granted the chance to have an audience with the prince. But how much more would he prefer a meeting with the woman who ruled over his heart? Assa, from Dingwall.
Soni’s voice rose and he took notice. The last of the McGregor brothers was called next. A busy night then.
As soon as Liam McGregor’s plaid arse was gone, the bonfire spit a few high flames, then fizzled and disappeared just as cleanly as Nessa Kennedy had.
Ah, Kennedy. A restless lass to be sure. Hundreds of times, he’d tried to speak with that spirit, to encourage her to join the rest of them from time to time, in hopes some of that restlessness would ease. But she’d practically run from him.
If he happened to be close by and turned to her suddenly, she would gasp and disappear as if she were one of those balloon toys, poked with a pin. The only thing lacking was the “pop.”
No. Kennedy hadn’t wished to speak to him or the rest. But thankfully, she’d found a friend in the young lad, Rabby. With both of them now gone, however, Culloden Moor seemed to him a much lonelier place. He’d grown partial to her keeping a wary eye on him, albeit from afar.
Along with the rest, he turned away from the gathering and sought a bit of peace from the excitement of the evening.
“Gerard Ross!” Soni’s voice rang out and stopped him. Knee deep, but unaffected by a deep pool of melted snow, he turned and waited.
Soni came to him. The green ring of light that swirled around her glowed brighter as she neared, as if lighting her way. Unnecessary, surely, as Soni must have known Culloden’s fields well enough to need no light.
“In two weeks’ time,” she said, panting from the sudden run. “I’ll be back for ye two weeks from now. Be ready, Gerard. After that, ye’ll no longer be known as Number 57.”
“I’ll be ready,” he told the lass. “In truth, I am ready now.”
Soni shrugged as a grin bloomed across her beguiling face. Her rapid breath came in bursts of frosted air. “Oh, but she is not yet ready,” she said. Then, with a wink and a wave, the wee witch was off to the car park. She tucked her long black robe and her green light into a wee white vehicle and left without a look back.
She?
CHAPTER TWO
It was a rare thing for Gerard to notice the passing of time.
For centuries, he’d awakened and slept, awakened and slept, at the whim of the wind. The only reason he’d known how much time had passed was because the visitors changed, along with their newspapers and their garb. He never grew weary, never needed physical rest. And until Soni came along nearly sixteen years before, he’d rarely been compelled by much at all.
The moor itself changed now and again. The building of the Great Visitor’s Center had disturbed his peace, but had also brought a bit of entertainment. And when folk started carrying around their mobile devices, he’d learned just how much the world had changed while he’d been lurking about.
For the past two weeks, however, he’d been acutely aware of every passing hour, minute, and second, thanks to that teasing wee witch.
She indeed.
Who was this woman who needed to prepare before his quest could begin? And what, exactly, needed preparing?
She…
Was she someone he had known from his mortal life? He�
�d sorted through every memory he could summon, but damned if he’d been able to think of more than half a dozen faces, including his own mother and gran. Then he’d pushed those possibilities aside, for all six of those had surely passed from the earth more than two hundred years before. Unfortunately, that lot included the mysterious Assa.
When he considered the measureless time he’d spent upon the moor in spirit form, he could think of only two instances where a woman had caught his attention—but only because they’d sported thick heads of red curling hair like Assa’s. Once he’d studied their faces, to see if the woman’s ghost had come looking for him, he’d never given them a second thought.
His memory of her exact features was long gone. However, if Assa herself stood before him, he was certain he would know her.
She…
If “she” was not from his mortal lifetime, and not from his spirit life, then she must needs be someone new, someone he had yet to meet. Would this she be a damsel in some distress? Or would she be a wee lassie who needs a helping hand a bit stronger than the average man’s.
While Gerard stood near the Leanach Cottage watching the sun seek its rest for the night, he glanced down at his hands. Large, yes. A bit on the hairy side, but not frighteningly so. A wee lass would do well trusting in his hands.
Well-formed arms, heavy with muscle—that was, if gravity had any pull on him. A strong back and legs, aye. Quick feet when needed. And a keen eye for danger.
He nodded to himself. If he were a lass in need of aid, he would consider himself lucky to have the assistance of a fine, braw warrior like Gerard Ross.
“I wonder…”
Gerard turned to see Watson materialize with his arse leaned against the nearest tree, and he groaned. Since they’d witnessed a film called “Sherlock Holmes and the Hound of the Baskervilles,” the bothersome man had taken upon himself the mannerisms of a fictional character, also named Watson, who was an assistant to a clever detective. And for the past three decades, the ghost-Watson had poked his nose where it never belonged, sure there was a mystery to be solved every time a bloody bee buzzed across a patch of heather.
Gerard braced himself for a lengthy analysis. But then realized a drawn out exchange with the busy-body might help to pass the time while he waited for Soni’s promised visit.
“What is it ye wonder, 71?” He couldn’t believe he was actually inviting the man into a conversation, but he was desperate for distraction.
Watson smirked, pushed away from the tree, then began pacing a wide circuit around him. “I was just trying to justify why the mighty Gerard Ross was suddenly so taken with his own form? For whom would ye be preening at this time of…” He glanced at the trees to the west beyond which the sun had disappeared. “This time of evening.”
Gerard shrugged. “An inventory is a wise thing, every now and again.”
Watson nodded in a maybe sort of way. “Worried ye might be going to fat?” Then he laughed.
Gerard tried to laugh along, but he was far too nervous for such inanities.
The other ghost gestured toward Gerard’s hand that fidgeted and tapped the side of his kilt. Gerard immediately ceased the twitching and folded his arms.
“Nervous, too?” Watson shook his head. “Preening and nervous. Not like ye, Ross.”
Gerard was just about to suggest the man go burrow back into his grave and count his bones when he was distracted by the flash of a light. A car pulled down the drive. It was the same white color Soni had driven two nights before. But after a quick turn, the car drove away again, obviously realizing the Great Visitor’s Center was closed for the night.
“Interesting,” Watson remarked.
But Gerard was in no mood for the other ghost’s nonsense. If it were Nessa Kennedy watching him so closely, he wouldn’t mind a bit. But Watson?
Gerard closed the distance between them, and as he was about to pass 71, he paused just long enough to throw his fist through the other ghost’s head. Nothing connected. There was no satisfying smack or vibration from the contact. But it was enough to give Watson his encouragement to go to hell.
CHAPTER THREE
As soon as it was fully dark, a heavy fog marched silently and smoothly onto the fields like a gathering army. Some of Gerard’s comrades took note and slipped away as if they were in no mood for such ominous portends. Others never noticed at all when their own ghostly figures were erased by a steadily moving cloud of something slightly more substantial than themselves.
But there was one spirit who stood in the center of the battlefield with his hands on his hips, his chin high, and a scowl on his forehead that would likely frighten the mist away if only it had a pair of eyes to see his formidable visage.
Number 79. Simon McLaren.
The ghost had been spoiling for a fight since the night of the first Gathering, when Soni had called them all together and announced she would, indeed, be sending them on to the hereafter whether they willed it or no. She and McLaren had argued over her plan—the details of which the big blond seemed to understand more than the rest of them. But no matter how he’d begged her, the lass had been determined to see her plan through.
McLaren hadn’t taken his defeat well. And it was lucky for the lot of them that the big man couldn’t do any more damage to them than Gerard had done a wee while ago to Watson. Otherwise, they’d be licking their wounds once again.
And now the ghost was taking issue with the mist?
Perhaps he is finally going mad, Gerard thought. Though a more unnatural mist he had never seen upon the moor before. Then he wondered if McLaren knew something more than he did.
His instincts told him to clear his mind and slip away like many others had done, and he would have, were it not for the fact that Soni was coming for him.
Forbes strode past his right shoulder, shaking his head, murmuring to himself. “The lass would be foolish to be out in such a fog. We’ll not see her this night.”
Gerard’s chest tightened. He hoped 17 was wrong, that Soni would come. But at the same time, he hoped she was wise enough not to venture out onto dangerous roads for the sake of dead men.
The fog stomped past McLaren in spite of his scowl, and the big man’s head dropped to his chest just as he disappeared into the opaque wall.
A long minute later, the vapor came for Gerard and the Great Visitor’s Center beyond. It swallowed him like a great dust storm and he marveled at the immediate and shocking sense of being somewhere other than the battlefield. White in all directions. And beyond the white…anything at all.
From the right, he heard hissing and turned toward it, fearless, but wary.
A subdued green glow the size of a fist grew to become a low horizontal smear in the clouds before him. His heart leapt.
Soni had come just as she’d promised.
She hissed at him again. “Gerard Ross, are ye there?” Her face emerged as if from the depths of a smoky mirror and grinned at him. “I’ll not have the others looking on, aye? For the question I am about to ask ye, many will not be asked.”
“Ye summoned the fog, then?”
She nodded with a touch of pride. “I did, indeed. How can I ever have a private word with Simon McLaren with all of ye gawking?”
Gerard laughed, knowing the big blond’s mood would soon change. “Then it was not dangerous for ye to come?”
Her reply was a light laugh and a wink.
And with that worry out of the way, he remembered the questions that had plagued him every moment for the past two weeks. “I’ve a question or two, Soncerae—”
“Your questions will be answered in due time. But my query is this: if ye had the whole of the world to choose from, Gerard Ross, where would ye go?”
“Dingwall.” The answer jumped from his mouth before he had time to consider. He had once hoped to search out a lass in the city of Dingwall, if the Battle of Culloden Moor would have gone the other way. But he’d given up that hope soon after the opening volley.
And sin
ce Assa of Dingwall must surely have met her death a full two hundred years ago, there was no need to look for her—unless he wished to glimpse a stone with her name engraved upon it.
He snorted. He didn’t know the lass’ surname. He could trip and fall face-first on her grave and never know if it was truly hers. But even then, to what end? As ghost or man, what good could he be to her now?
And still, with all the world to choose from, he could not deny that Dingwall was where his heart still wished to go.
Soni emitted a strange little sound that could only mean she was delighted with his answer. Then she cleared her throat, put a serious mask on her features, and nodded. “Very well, then. Dingwall it is.”
An irrepressible grin had just begun its escape when Soni and her beloved dimples disappeared altogether. And in their place was the old, deeply creased face of a well-aged woman who had fallen asleep, seated upright on a bus bench. Her chin rested on twisted old hands that were, in turn, resting on the handle of a long black cane.
Finding himself on his knees before the old woman, Gerard’s nose was less than a foot away from the swollen one covered with spots of age. He decided to back away carefully and not wake her, but he was startled to find himself breathing real air into his lungs again, and his gasp brought the old eyes open with a snap.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Auch, ye’re a handsome devil, ye are,” the ancient woman said. Her lips had long since faded of any blush and if there were teeth hidden behind them, Gerard saw none. Her voice was little more than a rasp of dry wind over drier leaves. But it was so foreign a sensation—to be seen by a mortal other than his Soni—he could not move. “And if ye be Lucifer,” she continued, “I’d sorely be tempted to follow ye anywhere.” Her cheeks plumped into rosy orbs and she laughed.
The delightful sound broke the spell and he was able to stand. Then he bowed. “‘Tis a lucky thing I am not he, then. For I would spirit ye away in a trice, take back every tear ye’ve shed, and lay the world at yer feet, lassie.”
