He watched her with an openness she could not decipher. He did not flinch at the coarse scars on her face as he touched them. There was no pity in his gaze. He did not rebuff her. Against her will and against all sense of self-protection, she wanted to know more about him. To understand why this was happening.
“And you? If you are a ghost, how did you come to be here and as you are?” She glanced down at that muscular chest briefly, too briefly if she had a choice, and then back up at his face. “Why are you here?”
“Soni sent me from the moor.” He shook his head and spoke again. “Soni is a person with great powers. Somehow, she sent me back into my body and gave me two days to accomplish some task before …”
“Before?” She knew his answer as she asked the question.
“Before my soul can move on from this life, this time, this place.”
“And you will be dead? Dead dead?”
“Ah, lass, ye have a way with words, ye do indeed. Aye, I will be truly dead.”
He stood then and walked over to the door. With his height, it was easy for him to look out the window at the top of it. Though the night settled in early here in March, there was still enough light to see out. He turned the knob of the door and pulled it open, surprising her. “I will return.”
“Where are you going?”
He blushed then. Somehow, it made him even more appealing and he looked younger, too. He stammered then and nodded toward the woods. She couldn’t help but to smile then as she understood his situation.
“Let me show you,” she said, standing and pointing down the hallway.
“Show me? Lass, truly I ken how to pish! Even if I havena needed to in almost three hundred years!”
His indignation was adorable. And somehow, it felt completely genuine to her. If he was or wasn’t a ghost, it didn’t matter really, for he believed it. If he was going to be here for only two days, what harm would there be in playing along with this? If she was in some state of limbo before dying, why not enjoy this time and discover the truth behind it?
“Of course, you do,” she said, walking to the bathroom there. “But, you can see to it here and not worry about bears or other creatures that come out to hunt at night.”
“Bears? Ye have bears here? There are no bears in Scotland,” he said, walking close behind her. “I saw this room earlier. When you slept.”
“Now that I know you don’t know about modern plumbing and such, let me explain.”
It took only a minute to explain the convenience of indoor plumbing before Fee left him alone. The toilet flushed several times and then a few more before Struan made his way back down to the kitchen and found her putting water on to boil for tea. He looked very happy with himself and he nodded to her.
“I like modern plumbing,” he said. “Much more pleasant than the woods in the cold dark of night.”
The absurdity of the whole situation—him, her, death, ghosts and peeing in a toilet—overwhelmed her then and she laughed.
And it surprised her for she’d not laughed in over three years. Not since all the joy had been ripped from her life in one moment of complete and utter destruction and anguish. The muscles of her face had forgotten how, but once she started, they learned again.
Tears flowed as she laughed and then she began coughing. He stood by, watching her closely but not interfering. When she finally could breathe again, Fee wiped her face with the back of her sleeve and realized she yet wore her coat.
And he wore only his pants.
“If you’re going to be here for another day or two, you need some clothing. You can’t run around like … this.” And she could not continue to stare at this man’s chest. The sight and his nearness of him prickled her senses. But it was more common courtesy that caused her to make her offer. “There’s a storage chest in the bedroom upstairs. My father and my brother were … both big men. Something of theirs should fit you.”
Her stomach clenched and Fee fought off the wave of grief. Strange how she felt more now than she had for months and months. Maybe the nearness of her own death was bringing it on? Well, she didn’t like it at all. She’d escape it all soon enough. After her own personal Twilight Zone episode finished with Struan’s departure, that was.
“Would they mind me borrowing their things, lass?” he asked.
She couldn’t have answered if she’d wanted to. The words thickened in her throat and threatened to choke her.
So, Fee stood and walked on stiff legs to the stairs and climbed them, one at a time, struggling with each step. The sound of his breathing and the echoes of his paces told her that Struan followed closely. She reached the top and made her way to the last bedroom on the left. When she placed her hand on the light switch, she closed her eyes. The heat of him at her back pushed her on into the room of many memories.
“Here, take a look at these,” she said, pointing to the large, cedar storage chest in the corner of the room. When she leaned down to open it, he eased around her and lifted the heavy lid without any apparent effort. “Any of those might work.”
Fee stepped out of his way and let him search through the old work shirts and sweaters stored there. A mix of her father’s and brother’s clothes she’d moved into one place some time ago.
“And they wouldna mind me using their things?” The words were spoken so softly, she almost felt them ripple in the air rather than heard them.
“They’re gone, Struan. All gone,” she said, nodding to the photos displayed on the mantel there. “So, no, they would not mind.”
Though he wanted to say or ask her something, he didn’t. Instead he nodded and began checking the clothes. As he lifted different ones to size them up, she remembered a time she’d seen them worn. The blue flannel shirt her dad liked to wear while puttering around outside. A golf shirt he’d worn on his birthday. His robe, one that he’d had for years and one she’d wrapped around herself here when the grief was new and raw. She’d not washed it since and his smell wafted in the air when Struan shook it out.
“Ye are smiling.” She glanced up to find him studying her. He folded the robe and placed it aside.
“My father wore that shirt when he was trying to fix a flat tire.” She did smile then, remembering all the mishaps that prevented that bicycle tire from ever being repaired. He’d given up and just bought her a new bike instead.
“And this one?”
“Dad took my mom out in the canoe. Let’s just say that didn’t go well either.”
He picked up one and then another, asking her each time to tell him about a moment, a memory, of her past. Of their past. When he reached the bottom of the trunk, he had a nice pile of possibles. Struan gathered them up and faced her.
“Will it bother ye if I wear these?” he asked, glancing at the shirts and sweaters and back at her.
Fee inhaled slowly, considering his question. “It will remind me of happier times, Struan. So, no, I won’t mind if you do.”
The sentiment was an honest one, for her heart did not hurt when she said the words. When he chose one and shook it out, she thought of another courtesy she could offer him.
“Have you ever taken a shower?”
Chapter Six
A rainforest showerhead, the lass had called it.
He called it heaven on earth.
Though he’d been in the forest while rain poured down, never had it felt like this. Struan lifted his face once more to it and let the warm water cascade over his face and head and body. Whether the temperature of the water or the gentle way it sluiced over his skin, he knew not which was more pleasurable. He just enjoyed every single moment it did.
Washing in the cold streams or rivers had been his practice while in the army of the Bonnie Prince, just as every man did when he had the opportunity. He could not remember the last time he had a proper bath, or a warm one at that. Struan laughed then, realizing that much more time had passed than he’d given credit since he was last in the flesh i
n 1746.
Reaching out, Struan slid the knob as the lass had shown him and the water began to pelt down instead of the gentle fall before. He poured out a small amount of liquid soap and spread it over his hair and head. Bloody hell, it felt good to do this. And what a miracle this plumbing was! He’d thought that the toilet was one and then the lass had shown him this small enclosed bit of heaven. He would like to stay here forever.
Laughing, he finished washing and turned off the faucets and showerhead. He would have heard her sooner if he had not been so overwhelmed by the luxurious feel of the drying linens he used. Finally dressed in his trews and the borrowed sweater, he opened the door to the hallway and, at first, he heard nothing at all. The ticking of a clock. The call of a night bird outside. As he stepped into the hall, the soft sound happened.
Turning to and fro, he realized it came from one of the bedchambers there. He walked slowly, listening, hoping she’d stopped, until the next sob came from behind the door where he stood now. Such profound pain and loss in each cry. Struan ached for the deeply-held grief there within each sob and within this brave, sad lass. If he could only do something to ease her pain …
But he could.
Her loss was no different from his, not in its deepest measure. Time and place meant little to nothing. Whether lost in or to war or to other causes, the lives of our most precious ones cost her deeply, too. And just as he had for the other seventy-eight, his stories might help to ease her suffering. He could tell her the ones that would make her smile or, mayhap, laugh again. Struan eased the knob, opening the door slowly. As he expected, she held in her cries as he entered.
He said nothing at first and asked not permission for his approach. Walking to the bedside, he saw in the lowlight of some electrical candle that she lay in the center, curled up on her side, clutching something tightly to her chest.
The robe.
The one that made her eyes lose their brightness when she first saw it in the trunk. It must be dear to her to cause such pain and yet not be able to resist its call.
Without a word, he laid down next to her and slid his arm under her head and the other over her and the crumpled robe. She did not resist his movements, indeed, she allowed them and then leaned against him. His chest tightened as she continued to cry but over the next minutes, she stopped. A hiccup echoed through the air and he knew the worst was over. As he thought on which story to tell her, Soni’s words came back to him.
Someone needs to hear yer stories now.
He’d changed his stories around when he told them on the moor, giving them much better endings than the real ones. Especially when he could tell that the others needed their spirits uplifted and a respite from their grief and hopelessness. Something told him now, though, that Fiona needed to hear his own story. One he’d not dared to speak in nigh on three hundred years.
“I left them in anger,” he said, remembering the exact day his life had changed irreparably. “My clan rose for the rightful Stuart king, but not all were in favor of going off to fight for him or his son. My own father seemed to ken ‘twas a bad idea and he forbade me to go.” He let out a breath as the harsh words he’d spoken to his father echoed in his thoughts. “I had the arrogance of youth and inexperience and he was speaking words of wisdom, but I was too full of myself to take it in.” For a moment, he thought she might have stroked his hand.
These memories were even more painful now that he was alive and made of flesh and blood, rather than the wisps of spirit and mist of these past centuries. Struan leaned his head down against the back of Fiona’s, gaining comfort from her nearness.
“So, with others from my village, I left to follow the Lochiel, my chieftain, and the prince. ‘Twas not the glorious rising we all thought we’d see.” He whispered now, unable to speak his fears aloud. “I saw so many die—of wounds and sepsis and hunger. I fought at Prestopans and Falkirk and I killed …”
He’d been a farmer, not a soldier or warrior, before the call went out from his chieftain. ‘Twas war, the others had counselled him. ‘Twas the way of things. But nothing had prepared him for the carnage he’d witnessed since he’d left his home. For losing so many kinsmen and friends.
“Word came after Falkirk of attacks more than four hundred farms and houses on Cameron lands and I got leave to travel home. ‘Twas bad.”
Whether the dread within him caused it or some other cause, Fiona tensed within his arms. Struan eased back a bit from her and loosened the hold he had on her. He wondered if he should skip further into his story when she spoke.
“Tell me, Struan. Tell me all of it.” She turned in his arms a bit and pressed back against him.
“Troops under the orders of the Duke of Cumberland laid waste to my village and others along the loch. Houses, barns, farms, fields—all destroyed and burned to the ground.” He swallowed then, against the pain that pierced him, heart and soul. “My father died trying to save my mother and my sisters from the flames.”
The thought of those terrible deaths devastated him even now. How they died in terror. How they must have suffered. How they must have blamed him for not being there to help them.
“How many sisters did you have?”
“Three. I had three sisters.”
He’d pushed these memories aside for centuries, not daring to dwell on the reasons behind his death. Or on his beloved sisters or parents. ‘Twas too hard, really. Too hard to exist even in the mist of Drummossie when you thought too much about your life in flesh-and-blood. He told stories of many of his relatives, but none about those who were closest to him.
“My sister was named Sara,” she whispered. “She was three years younger than me.” He let out a breath at her admission, understanding what he must do then.
“Anna had ten years. Beatrice had twelve. And Cecelia had ten-and-four. When they died.”
As he spoke their names aloud for the first time since their deaths, images of the three raced through his mind. The lasses racing along the edge of the loch, splashing and laughing as their mother called to them to have a care. The arguments that would flare among the three, all beautiful young women in the making. He’d forced those memories and so many more away, locked them deep inside himself and never allowed them to bother him. Not once since he’d died.
Well, not once since he made the decision to die.
The winds rose outside the cabin then, the first sign of an approaching storm, interrupting the silence that grew around them. Louder and louder, the winds increased and then, just as suddenly, the rains began, beating against the window next to the bed. It happened quickly, just as it did in Scotland—very little, if any, warning and it was on top of you.
They lay there together, with the storm raging around them outside and a similar one swirling inside him. To tell the rest, to honestly tell the rest, he would reveal his own greatest sin. Though Fee thought him to be a moment to examine her conscience, Struan considered that it was possible she was his.
And, perchance, this was the reason he was here, now, with Fiona—a woman who was about to commit the same grievous sin that he had? For he had not returned to the field to kill the men who served those responsible for his family’s destruction. Nay, he had returned to die. To let them kill him and put an end to his misery and shame.
Well, if this was the purpose of Soni’s magic, to give him this chance at absolution before facing the Almighty, he’d not waste it. The room was chilly now, so he eased away from her to grab the blanket that lay folded at the bottom of the bed. Tossing it over both of them, he smiled as she lifted her head and let him draw in close. He liked the feel of her in his arms. He enjoyed her softness and curves against him.
In all the years existing as ghost, he’d not once lamented over the loss of pleasures of the fleshly kind. Strange that, since most of those who’d risen that day and those who yet waited on the moor were in their prime. Young men all, but for the one called Eight, who was younger than any of them and tru
ly, just a lad.
Now, though, laying in her bed, his limbs and body wrapped around her, Struan remembered the joys that could be had by a man and a woman. Trying to fight the attraction of her and the distraction that would draw him from what he believed was his challenge, Struan cleared his throat and told her the rest.
He told her the worst.
His grave sin that was an affront to God and to good people. The same one that she had attempted on the cliff.
“I only returned to Lochiel’s men because I lacked the courage to do what you’ve been planning to do, Fiona,” he whispered then. “I wanted to die but could not take my own life. So, I went into battle with no intention of surviving it.”
He heard and felt the quick inhalation of surprise in her. Struan thought she might speak but she did not. And he could not tell if she had simply been surprised by his words or disgusted by his lack of bravery.
“By some mistake, the Lochiel’s men on the right flank charged before the left one did and it took us directly to Barrel’s and Munro’s regiments and the thick of the fighting. I thought it would be easy to die that day. But, something in me would not give up. I fought until I saw Lochiel taken down by grape shot. If my chieftain was down, I thought ‘twas time.”
He explained it all even as the sights and sounds swirled in his thoughts—he could hear the roar of the Highlanders’ charge and smell the powder of the guns and the cannon around him then. The charge turned into screams and wailing as more and more of them were cut down there on the moor. When one soldier ran at him, brandishing his sword, Struan dropped his arms to his side and paused for one brief moment.
The slice that took his arm off at the shoulder, the injury that would take his life, was quick and less painful than he thought it would be. It took less time and less effort than he expected to die.
“And that is how I died—of my own free will. Because I could not stand the thought of living without them. Because I chose to die that day.”
The Storyteller: A Highland Romance (Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 45) Page 4
