The Storyteller: A Highland Romance (Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 45)

by TERRI BRISBIN

  The only thing he could hear when he finished his admission, his confession, was their breathing, his still racing and hers slow and calm. She lifted his hand and entwined their fingers together before pressing it to her cheek … her tear-dampened cheek.

  They lay there with no words to say as the storm outside blew hard against the cottage and the trees. The sound of that chaos somehow calmed the one within him and soon Struan found himself being lulled into sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The soundness and depth of her sleep surprised her. Fee opened her eyes to find daylight streaming into the small window that faced the east. And she found herself alone in that bed. She’d never even felt his departure. That was not normal.

  Fee would admit that she hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in a long time and the last time she slept with a man, well, that was long ago, too. Yet, for a while in the middle of the night, he’d been wrapped around her so tightly and she savored that closeness. When she’d awakened in the dark, she could not feel a place where a skosh of space separated his body from hers. The truly strange thing was that she’d not slept soundly in years and yet she’d slept through his leaving the bed and the room.

  Rolling onto her back, Fee began the stretching exercises that started every day of her life before she would even think about getting up. This morning, they seemed easier and her body was still warm, not cold or shivering as she usually woke.

  From having his body wrapped around her through the night.

  There had been a moment when he’d embraced her and all of his strength and heat poured into her and, for that moment, she’d not felt as alone and separate as she had for years. As she climbed from the bed, she realized she’d slept in her clothes. But the sight of her father’s robe, there on the bed even now, had torn her heart in pieces in an unexpected way. Oh, showing Struan his sweaters and shirts twisted her gut but that robe was a killer for her.

  In only a few minutes, she washed and changed and went downstairs to find Struan. The house’s silence told her he was not there. Had he gone? Had telling his story to her finished whatever he must do to leave? She quickened her steps through the living room and kitchen and spoke his name.

  No one answered.

  Well, she was back on her own and now must either move forward with her plan or accept that she’d failed. Lost in her thoughts, she moved around the kitchen and she only noticed that she was making tea when the electric kettle boiled. A habit of long standing that. Her parents and sister preferred coffee while she and Ian were tea drinkers. But their practice was first-up, make-the-coffee-tea.

  Oh, dear God, how she wanted to make coffee for them again!

  If only she hadn’t called the family meeting at the office to discuss a new venture. If only it hadn’t been THAT day. If only they’d heard the whistling of the gas building beneath their feet. If only … If only.

  Pain unlike anything she’d felt in months pierced her heart, forcing her to grab hold of the counter to stay on her feet. The guilt. The knowing that her actions had resulted in her family’s death. Everyone tried to convince her otherwise, telling her that there were thousands or millions of variables that all came together in that place, in that moment, on that day. Those variables caused their deaths, they said. Not her. But Fee knew the truth—she’d failed to have the furnace serviced a month before when the leak would have been discovered and corrected.

  The officials said it was an accident. The inspectors said it could have happened at any moment. But they didn’t know. They didn’t know how she’d failed. She stood there, mired in the misery that had controlled her since that day, barely able to breathe around the pain.

  Tires crunching on the dirt of the road outside her cabin pulled her from the grasp of reliving the past. A car or truck pulled up and stopped in front of her door. Walking to the front door, she heard Struan’s voice calling out.

  “Good day to ye, Matt! And my thanks for bringing me back!”

  As she opened the door, Struan slammed the truck’s door and tapped on the roof. Matt, who owned the general store a few miles down the road, nodded and waved at both of them and drove off. Struan stood there with a bag in each hand, smiling and nodding himself.

  “You went shopping?” Her own stomach grumbled then, surprising her since she was rarely hungry.

  “Aye. Well, nay. I went off to walk by the sea, got turned around on the path and ended up south of here,” he said as he passed her. Carrying the bags into the kitchen, he began emptying the contents on the counter. “I’d walked a few miles when I came to the main road and saw Matt’s market store.”

  A dozen eggs. A pound of bacon. A small bottle of cream. An unsliced loaf of bread, probably Janet’s, probably made this morning. Smaller packages of sliced deli meats, from the look of them. The essentials. The last thing he took out was a bottle of wine.

  “Matt was surprised that you were here, but I explained it was an unplanned visit and only for another day and that your cupboard was bare. He said he’d put this on yer bill.”

  She smiled at his words. “The wine?”

  “Och, aye,” Struan said, holding out the bottle to her. “Matt said it’s a new vineyard from over on Serenity Harbor and he wanted ye to give it a try.”

  “You seem to have found your way around here,” she said, smiling at his expression.

  “Ye were sleeping so soundly, I didna wish to wake ye,” he said. “I needed to get some air, so I began walking. Ye ken the rest.” He glanced out the window that overlooked the back porch, looking for … something. “I can cook if ye wish to break our fast.”

  “You cook?” she asked. He arched a brow at her and she suspected he did indeed know how to cook. If his story was true, he needed to be self-sufficient during the time he was on the road with the Bonnie Prince’s army. They did not have the modern warfare or army practices to rely on and so he knew how to cook. Probably whatever food he found or killed or could buy.

  “If ye have a girdle pan, I can make a fire outside,” he suggested. “Or if ye show me how this cooking … stove works, I am certain I can figure it out.”

  He stepped out of her way as she opened one of the closets beneath the cooktop and pulled out a griddle pan. Placing it over the grill top section of the stove, she turned on the flames under it and motioned him closer.

  “This is on low heat now. Turn this,” she pointed at the correct knob, “to turn the heat up.”

  Fee moved to the counter where the kettle waited and made two of the largest mugs of tea she could. With sugar and a dollop of the cream he’d brought back, Fee was content that it was also the perfect cup of tea. She placed his next to the stove where he could reach it. Before he did anything else, he got a chair from the table, placed it there and nodded. “Sit.”

  So, she did. Fee found herself both entertained and amazed by his efficient and proficient cooking skills. And she found herself studying this stranger who’d walked, ran, into her life and now was making breakfast for her. More than that, he made it all feel so … normal. Like finding a tall, handsome, sexy Highlander ghost now flesh-and-blood in her kitchen happened every day.

  He’d pulled his shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail, tied and held out of his face. He must have washed it last night during his shower and slept with it wet, for she could see his reddish-brown curls struggled to be free of the control of the ponytail. He wore the same sweater now, over his own pants, and he slid the sleeves up on his forearms to keep them out of his way. Fee had not really taken notice of a man’s forearm before, but the sprinkling of dark auburn hair appealed to her.

  As usual, he began to tell her stories—stories about cooking mishaps in his family and along the path to Culloden and she stopped fighting her amusement and laughed along with him. Soon, the kitchen filled with the delicious aroma of bacon frying and the appealing sound of his Scottish-accented voice. He had a methodical approach to making the meal—first the bacon fried, then he dipp
ed thick slices of Janet’s fresh bread into the grease and let them grill. So much for heart-healthy cooking! When the bread was fried and crispy, he moved it aside and broke a series of eggs onto the griddle. Rather than scrambling them in a separate bowl, he used a fork and the spatula to mix them as they cooked. Again, efficient.

  And her mouth watered waiting for him to finish.

  Getting plates from the cabinet, she held them out to him and he divided the food between them. Struan took the plates to the table and waited for her to join him there. Fee almost moaned at the taste of the bread when she bit into it. From Struan’s laugh, Fee understood that she’d made the sound loud enough for him to hear.

  “I am pleased that ye like the food,” he said, between bites of egg and bacon and fried bread.

  “It’s all wonderful.”

  “’It’ll do to fill yer belly’, my mam would say.” He scooped up the last of the eggs on his plate and held them up. “Aye, they’ll do.”

  Once the dishes were cleaned and put away, he reached out for her hand. Fee hesitated but he simply held his out there, waiting for her to relent. And she did.

  “Come outside, lass. ‘Tis the most beautiful day after a storm I’ve seen in a long time.”

  Whether it was that enticing accent or voice, or the man himself or the invitation, she could not tell which of the temptations made her succumb. He led her to the kitchen door and opened it. He was right—a gentle breeze of cool, fresh air rushed inside, filling the room with the clean scent of the ocean after a storm. Grabbing a jacket from the peg there, she walked with him outside. They reached the edge of the property, he stopped.

  “I thought it would never stop last night. The rain pounding on the house and the windows. The winds, by God, the winds were so high!” He smiled at her. “I was tempted to walk out in it. To feel it on my skin once more.”

  “How did you live that way without going mad?”

  He startled at her question then, searching her face and meeting her gaze. “That almost sounded as though ye believe me.”

  She turned to face him and lifted her hand free. “I think I do.” Fee glanced at her hand before dropping it to her side. “I do.” She swallowed and nodded at the small patio nearby. “You told me a bit about how it felt. What the others were like.”

  “I will tell ye only if ye tell me yer story, Fiona Masters.”

  Her lovely eyes emptied for a scant moment and then fear crept in, darkening them. He believed she would refuse. She’d said almost nothing about what had brought her to the cliffside and, other than what he’d observed himself, he still had little idea of her motives for ending her life.

  Loss? Oh, clearly she had lost those she loved the most. But many people did without wanting to end their lives. Was it for her as it had been for him—had she played some part in their deaths and the guilt of it drove her to the cliff with a gun in her hand? Nay, that could not be.

  Did she think to go through with it after Soni came and fetched him? Did she mayhap need a moment to unburden her conscience? Had there been no priest for her? They’d had priests on the battlefield, to bless those fighting and to hear confessions, but Struan had not dared to speak to a priest about his decision.

  “Fine.” The whispered word floated on the breeze between them.

  He nodded and stood. “I’ll bring ye some tea.”

  He did not wish to delay, but he wanted to see to her comfort as she did speak. ‘Twas clear to him that she had no one to see to her and that she suffered much from whatever had injured her. So, he watched through the kitchen window as she settled in one of the chairs there on the patio as she called it. He freshened their cups and carried them out. After handing her one, he sat gently into another chair, hoping it would hold him up. It was not wood nor any metal he’d seen before and he held little confidence in its light frame to remain upright. Then, he waited for her to speak, knowing he could not force the words from her. When she did, he nearly fell over, chair and all.

  “I killed my whole family.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Ye killed yer family?” He shook his head and righted himself and the flimsy chair under him. “I canna believe that, lass.”

  She said nothing else for a long time and they sat quietly with only the sounds of the winds rustling through the trees and a few sea birds screeching out in the distance.

  “If ye are not ready, should I tell ye more about being a ghost?” He thought that if he began first, it might ease her way. When she replied neither aye nor nay, he went on. “I told ye about rising the next morn with the others and how we could not seem to make ourselves known to those on the battlefield.” He watched her closely for any reaction. At her slight nod, he went on. “I do not remember much about the passage of time, just that it did. Sometimes, we would gather together—”

  “And you would tell your stories?”

  “Aye. Sometimes, aye. Other times, we were simply there. We would trail after visitors to the fields, once that became something that people did. The first two centuries, we had it mostly to ourselves once the English and their supporters cleaned the field.” He shivered then, at memories of watching the Butcher’s soldiers move in waves across the battlefield. “They used their bayonets or swords on any fallen man or boy that might not be dead yet. He earned his name beginning that day, I will tell ye. ‘The Butcher.’ Duke of Cumberland, the king’s son.” He paused and spit on the ground as the name passed his lips.

  “You? Did they do that to you?” she asked.

  “Nay, lass. I was clearly dead to anyone looking. But it wouldna mattered for I could not survive my injury.” He couldn’t help but reach up and rub his shoulder and arm, one he was still not accustomed to having back.

  “And you never knew why you’d been left there as spirits?”

  “Nay.” He drank down the rest of his tea and shook his head. They’d talked about it over the years and none could think of any reason they had been left behind when others moved on.

  “We had nothing in common other than we fought for the line of James, the rightful king of Scotland. We came from different clans, different septs, and different places.” He met her gaze across the distance and he knew the question she most wanted to ask. Fiona put her cup down on the table there.

  “How does it feel to die, Struan? That is what I want to know.”

  “Nay, lass. Ye want to ken what happens after the dying.”

  “And that, too.”

  “I only can tell ye about dying, Fiona. And only my story, for that is one thing that we never talked about on the moor.”

  “Did it hurt?” she asked. “Not the injury, of course. But the dying?”

  “Only my arm hurt. Only my arm.” He shook his head as he rubbed the length of it again. “I saw his approach and his weapon held high. He was no taller than me and not much older but he put his weight behind the stroke and it took only the one blow to take my arm.”

  She shivered now and he was tempted to stop. But, if he was to hear her words, she must hear his.

  “I fell to the ground and I could feel the cold begin to move up from my feet as my blood poured out. The icy chill numbed me until it reached my heart. The last beat was no different from the other thousands I’d felt before. Then, nothing. I dinna remember closing my eyes and yet, darkness covered me. The screams and the calls dissipated until there was only silence.”

  “You felt nothing else?”

  “Nay. Then, the next thing I remember was being aware of the moor again. I opened my eyes and stood, except that my body remained there on the ground.”

  “Did you try to leave the moor?”

  Struan stood then and walked to the edge of the paved floor beneath his feet. Staring off into the forest, he shrugged and answered.

  “We did try. No one could. If we tried, we simply faded away as we did when we did not try to stay.”

  “So, you spent your time telling your stories to enterta
in them?”

  “Not at first, nay. We watched as the land and the people changed. It took months for the battleground to be cleared and for all the bodies to be buried. It hurt to watch then—emotions seemed stronger and rose easier then. Over time, feelings faded and it took too much effort to raise them. Except the darker emotions. Fear, anger, desolation, despair, sadness—they came quickly and easily and remained far too long as our companions.”

  “Oh Struan,” she said. Her sorrow for him touched him more than anything had in his life. “To remain like that … it must have been terrible. No wonder you told your stories.”

  “I canna even remember when I told my first story. Or even which one it was. But one and then another would ask me to, and I would. Sometimes I made them laugh. Other times, I just tried to ease their suffering and make them … less anxious.”

  “Did you tell stories over and over? I guess there were favorites that they liked to hear?”

  “I might have taken some liberties with the one about the battle itself.” He laughed then and met her gaze. “I changed the outcome to one we all wanted. In various ways, with different charges and ploys, but always we were victorious.”

  “Did it help?” She sat up now on the edge of her chair, interested more than he’d witnessed in the last day of their conversations and encounters.

  “Aye,” he said. “I think it did. More so at different times.” Struan walked to her now and held out his hand once more. “Come, would ye like to walk a bit and tell me what ye ken ye wish to say?”

  Fiona looked as though she would refuse, for her chin took on a stubborn tilt and she straightened her shoulders back. Then, she pushed herself up to her feet and nodded.

  “I would like to take a walk. The day can turn cold and rainy so quickly in the autumn here, so it’s a shame if we don’t take advantage of it.”

  “’Tis much like that in the Highlands. The spring and autumn are the most unpredictable.”

  He noticed that, though she’d spoken on the safe topic of the weather, she’d still said nothing about talking to him and telling her story, but Struan decided not to pressure her. From all she’d said and from what Matt had told him, she did not need pressure. As she stood, he followed her to the path that led to the ocean.