MacLeod

by Cathy MacRae

  Alasdair reclined in the hallway, back against the wall, legs stretched before him. He lunged to his feet as soon as he saw me. Shock skittered across his face, sliding into a quirk of appreciation. My heart melted and a hint of mischievousness caused my lips to lift in response.

  “Ye clean up nice for a lad,” he teased.

  My eyes narrowed as the mood evaporated, and he laughed. “Come on. Let’s see who’s in the bar. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve already finished dining.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Ye dallied a wee bit in the shower.”

  This time I shot him a warning look, but his gaze darted away and he whistled guilelessly as he set a rapid pace down the hall to the dining room.

  The rich aromas of supper grew stronger as we entered the room. A few people still dined at small tables while a young man cleared away the dishes around them. The guests I’d seen as I entered the house had apparently finished their meal. A wave of dismay rushed over me. I dinnae have all night to wait until the group met again to break their fast. My fingers twisted the fabric of my gown in frustration.

  “Some will return to the bar for a nip after dinner,” Alasdair assured me, leading the way. Relieved to have another way to catch up to the guests, I followed his quick step.

  We entered the cozy room. A fire blazed on the hearth and two men old enough to be my grandfather—remembering I am still sixteen, no matter the passing of time—sat reading a paper at one table, a mug next to each man, whilst a young woman curled in a comfortable chair nearby, book in her hand. Alasdair and I slid into seats in the corner of the room.

  A woman of an age with the two older men bustled into the room and I leaned forward, studying her intently. She came to an abrupt stop several steps inside the door, a sudden frown on her face. Shoving a gray lock of hair from her forehead, she sighed.

  “Och! I cannae remember why I came in here. I must be losing my mind!” she said to no one in particular that I could see. With a harrumph, she whirled about and exited the room as quickly as she’d entered.

  One of the older men dropped the corner of his paper a bit and leaned to the man next to him. “Aye, she is losing her mind. She’s given me a piece of it daily for the past fifty years.”

  The other man chortled. The first one shook his paper back into proper shape and went back to reading.

  Little by little the group I’d seen earlier trickled into the bar. A man settled close to the fireplace, the amber of whisky glowing through his glass as he set it on the table. The woman I recognized as Alex’s ma sat beside him, though the lad dinnae join them. A few minutes later, the other man and woman entered the room, taking spots close to the bar. A young lass poured them each a glass of a deep red liquid—likely wine or claret, though I had little idea what people drank now. I’d often read the vast menu of food and drink available at the Culloden Visitors’ Centre, but so far I’d seen no such list here.

  “See that one, there?” Alasdair asked with a light touch to my knee to gain my attention as he pointed to a man I hadn’t noticed earlier. A frisson of awareness rippled up my leg at his touch. I shook off the distraction and followed his indication to the man on the other side of the room. His white hair was precisely combed and his jacket lay folded neatly over the arm of his chair. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose as he made careful notations in a slim book.

  “Who is he?” I asked, pitching my voice in a whisper, though ’twasn’t likely anyone could hear me.

  “He’s English by his manner and speech,” Alasdair replied, startling me with the harshness of his voice. “Acts as though he’s waiting for someone.”

  Too many possibilities ran through my mind and I dismissed the Englishman. He could be waiting for anyone from a beautiful lover—unlikely—to a wizened auld man who owed him money—more likely. I wasnae sure I wanted my heroic deed to be helping the damned English, anyway. And from Alasdair’s obvious disdain, neither did he.

  “He looks a wee bit sanctimonious, wouldn’t ye say?” Alasdair grunted, his eyebrows shoved together above his nose in a decidedly disgruntled fashion.

  “Aye. A bit like Lord Murray when he set the MacDonalds and the Glengarry Regiment at the left flank on the battlefield,” I noted, a sour twist to my stomach.

  “He dinnae!” Alasdair exclaimed, surprise wiping the glower from his face. “They’d been at the king’s right hand for more than two hundred years.” He shook his head. “Lord Murray should have known better.”

  “He wasnae best liked that day,” I commented with a shrug. “But the left flank, as it turned out, saw little of the battle. The ground between us and the government soldiers was boggy and difficult to cross.”

  “’Twas a boon for ye, then.”

  “Except for those of us who got caught in the rout.”

  I stilled Alasdair’s next comment with a nod to the door to the room as four braw men stomped into the room, earning themselves a stern look from the young woman behind the bar. They shook their heavy coats across the backs of their chairs and settled around a table in the middle of the room, taking elaborate care not to drag the chairs too noisily over the floor. The young woman rolled her eyes and sauntered to their table, a pen and paper in her hands.

  She took their drink preferences and left to fill their order. The men relaxed and chatted amongst themselves, raising the noise level in the room no wee bit.

  “Och, Mungo, did ye sell yer dog to the American or the Brit?” one man asked, thumping one of his friends on the shoulder.

  “I decided on the Brit,” Mungo admitted with a shake to his head.

  The other man sat up in his chair, eyebrows arched in a perplexed look. “Nay! Ye dinnae! The American offered ye a thousand pounds more for that mangy sheepdog. Why did ye choose the Brit?”

  Mungo grinned. “Because the dog cannae swim back from America, but he can walk home from England!” He toasted the group with his mug as the young woman served the table. They roared with laughter at his witty insight. I groaned.

  The Englishman snapped his little book closed and folded his eyeglasses, settling both into the inside pocket of his jacket. He rose, slipping his arms into the coat, brushing the fabric smooth. Making his mark on a slip of paper the lass slid across the table to him, he stepped from the room.

  I lunged to my feet. “Come on. Let’s follow him.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alasdair followed a scant step behind me muttering words I ignored as we crept from the room on the Englishman’s heels. His brisk stride carried him down the hall to another room where a fire burned on the hearth, making it warm and cozy.

  Sprawled across a large, cushioned chair, Alex, the young lad who’d arrived when I had scowled at a thin black box he clutched in his hands. He sent the Englishman a quick glance, then returned his attention to the box.

  “The Wi-Fi isn’t to your standards?” the Englishman asked.

  Alex shot him a rather wary look. “No. It’s pretty awful.”

  The two were silent for a moment as the Englishman seated himself at a small table. A box of children’s blocks lay tipped over in the corner, creating a colorful jumble in the otherwise staid room.

  “Your parents will be here in a few minutes. Is there anything you’d care to ask me before they arrive?”

  Alex pinned the Englishman with an angry glare. “Why should I talk to you? You can’t make things back like they were before…before … .” He broke off, turning his body away with a jerk.

  “Alex, it isn’t something we have control over. Your parents tell me you won’t listen to either of them. Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t want things to change.” His voice wavered—soft, bitter, and perhaps afraid. A muscle in his jaw jerked and he blinked rapidly. My heart went out to him. Whatever was happening in his family was hitting him hard.

  “I am sorry, Alex. Change in life is inevitable.”

  Alex’s parents appeared in the doorway, snatching everyone’s attention. His ma took a s
tep into the room and Alex lunged to his feet, pushing past them as he fled.

  Something harsh and indelicate rumbled low from his da. His ma’s face crumpled, tears brimming in her already reddened eyes.

  “I assume he was uncommunicative with you as well.” Alex’s da said in clipped tones as he grasped his wife’s elbow and guided her to a chair.

  “No, James, he expressed hostility and the desire for nothing to change.” The Englishman tilted his head. “Does he know exactly what is going on? His reaction seemed a bit extreme.”

  James and his wife exchanged a glance. She hesitated, then spoke. “I’ve tried, but I’m afraid he doesn’t let me get two words out before he bolts out of the room. Much like now.” The woman shook her head. “I’ve been so upset since Uncle Hector died …”

  James patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Alyce. Alex will come around.” He squared his shoulders and addressed the Englishman. “We wanted to include him in our decision to move here, but we can’t seem to pin him down for a discussion. Everything happened so quickly. I’ve worked long hours to get my business to a point where I can leave for a few weeks. We wanted to come here, check things out, and really hoped Alex would come around.”

  Not likely. I snorted. Alex dinnae seem to be embracing the move to Scotland. But why was he so troubled?

  I tugged Alasdair’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s talk to Alex.”

  I slipped from the room, though stealth was hardly necessary, Alasdair following. Not far down the hall, I caught sight of the lad. Luck was with me, for I’d truly no idea which way he’d gone.

  “Alex!” I gave a shout, but Alasdair grabbed my arm and pulled me into the recess of a doorway.

  “He isnae yer good deed,” he assured me with a glower.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Alasdair peered around the door frame. “He’s English.”

  “It matters not. He’s a troubled lad. I dinnae have control over who may need my help,” I informed him. “Ye must not interfere.”

  “We willnae be helping the bluidy English!” His normally pallid face took on a ruddy hue.

  “Ye can help me or not—’tis up to ye,” I told him crisply. “But ye cannae make my decision for me. Alex is a bright lad and I believe he needs my help.”

  His grip on my arm tightened and I jerked at the pressure. Alasdair released his grasp and rubbed the heel of his hand across the back of his neck in a frustrated gesture. “I dinnae like it.”

  I rested the tips of my fingers on his cheek, the muscles of his clenched jaw twitching beneath my touch. “Ye can tell me why later, but I need to speak to the lad now.”

  Giving me a grudging nod, Alasdair stepped into the hall. “Alex!” he shouted.

  The lad glanced over his shoulder and skidded hesitantly to a halt.

  “Who are you?” Curiosity rippled across his face.

  “Come with us. We’ll explain.” I motioned for him to follow.

  Alex’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I saw you earlier today, but my mom didn’t,” he hedged. “Am I the only one who can see you?”

  I grinned. “I believe so.” I paused, noting his glimmer of interest. “We’d like to help you.”

  His look darkened, his body slumped, despondent. “You can’t. No one can.”

  “Can you tell us why?” I asked gently. Alex glanced up and down the hall. ’Twas empty, but that was hardly a guaranteed permanent state, nor did it seem comfortable or inviting for a chat.

  “On the balcony where ’tis quiet this time of day,” Alasdair suggested gruffly, his dark, hooded eyes telling me plainly he still dinnae like it.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Alex shrugged and followed us to the small area over the front entry where Alasdair and I had met only a couple of hours earlier.

  *

  Alex leaned over the railing. “I can hear the ocean.”

  “Aye,” I agreed. “’Tis too dark to see, now, but in the morning, ye can see across the water to Skye, and the Cuillins rising up.”

  He faced me, the light from Raasay House chasing away the shadows on his face. “What are Cuillins and why do you say Rassie, not Ra-say?”

  I laughed. “I say Rassie because I was born here and ’tis how we say it. As for the Cuillins, they are the large mountain range on Skye.”

  “They can be dangerous for inexperienced hikers,” Alasdair added dampeningly.

  Alex perked up. “I can climb,” he scoffed. “I’ll bet I can do it.”

  Alasdair leaned closer, a warning look on his face. “At the bottom of the Cuillins lies Loch Coruisk. And in those deep, dark waters, lives a kelpie.” His voice dropped dramatically.

  I rolled my eyes. Lads.

  Alex’s attention fixed eagerly on Alasdair’s words. “What’s a kelpie?”

  Alasdair glanced around, as though he feared he’d be overheard. Alex slid into the chair next to Alasdair, hanging on to his every word. Alasdair drew back slightly, seeming loathe to come in contact with the English lad.

  “A kelpie is a monster that often appears as a beautiful horse, haunting rivers or lochs.”

  I cringed at the word haunting, but Alasdair never missed a beat.

  “Sometimes they appear as a beautiful woman, luring ye to yer death.”

  “Death?” young Alex gulped, his eyes wide.

  “Aye. Whether he appears as a tame pony—to a wee lad such as yerself—or as a wondrous horse, the kelpie has a magical hide that, if touched, ye cannae release.” Alasdair warmed to his tale. “Once he has captured ye, he’ll drag ye beneath the water—and eat ye!”

  His final pronouncement was delivered with a flair, his eyes flashing. Alex startled backward in his chair.

  “For real?” He shot me an uncertain look.

  “How else to explain the wee bairns that go missing by the loch?” I shrugged, trying to dispel the fright Alasdair had given the lad. “I confess I’ve not seen one, though.”

  “No chance to get away, then?” Alex’s voice cracked.

  Alasdair gave a negligent shrug. “Och, if ye can catch him by his bridle, he’ll become as tame as the parson’s fat cat. But best of luck to ye. The last lad who tried to catch a kelpie’s bridle touched the head of the beast as well and had to cut off two of his fingers to get away.”

  “Alasdair!” I admonished. “’Tis enough.”

  Alex rallied from the frightful tale and pointed at me. “Weren’t you dressed as a soldier earlier? Like him?”

  “Ye are a canny lad,” I approved, giving Alasdair a look that said I told ye so. From the scowl he sent me, I decided he dinnae take the reminder well. I switched my attention to Alex with a reassuring grin. “Not even my brothers recognized me.”

  “So, you’re from a re-enactment group, right?” Alex asked. His excitement turned doubtful. “But why can’t anyone else see you? And why do you sometimes appear blurry? Like you’re not really there.”

  Alasdair and I remained silent. I wasnae sure how the lad would respond when he learned we were ghosts. Alasdair, I am sure, simply dinnae wish to speak further to the lad.

  Alex’s hands gripped the arms of his chair. “I guess this is where you tell me you’re ghosts,” he said with a nervous laugh.

  I flashed Alasdair a warning look to keep him from launching into another horrifying tale. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow quirked upward.

  “I will grant ye he is perceptive,” he grunted. He pinned me with a stare. For an Englishman, he mouthed over Alex’s head.

  I frowned. I would get to the bottom of Alasdair’s problem later, but at the moment, young Alex needed someone to confide in. Who better to spill yer secrets to than a couple of ghosts no one else could see?

  “Aye, Alex, we are ghosts. Alasdair has had the haunting of Raasay House for many years. My name is Sorcha, and I arrived the same time ye did today.”

  To Alex’s credit, he dinnae flinch, but rather eyed us both with curiosity. “How old are you?” he asked.

 
“I am sixteen,” I told him, then gave Alasdair a questioning look.

  “Twenty,” he grunted.

  “Wow! You’re not much older than me,” Alex noted, giving me a nod. “I’m going to be twelve soon.”

  “Twelve? I had a sister yer age—many years ago.” A curious pricking sensation bothered my eyes and I blinked, surprised to find tears near the surface.

  “When—” Alex broke off, his cheeks reddened.

  “When did we die?” I thought I’d help him along with the difficult questions. He nodded.

  “I died in 1746 after a great battle near Inverness,” I told him. “How well do ye know yer Scottish history?”

  He shrugged. “Not very well, really.”

  I caught Alasdair’s scowl and decided to hurry the conversation along. “Never mind, then. Alasdair, how long have ye haunted the house?”

  “Ye know verra well I died the same year ye did,” he growled.

  Giving up on any hope of Alasdair’s show of good will toward Alex, I faced the lad and smiled. “Alex, we saw ye talking to the Englishman earlier. Then ye rushed from the room when yer parents arrived. Can ye tell us what has ye so upset?”

  He stared at me. He stared at his feet. His gaze slid past Alasdair and into the night. “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Nae. We only wish to help. Ye can trust us.”

  A corner of his lips quirked upward. “I guess there’s no one to tell, is there?”

  “Canny lad,” I repeated with a grin. “Right now we’re yer best friends.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “My dad wants to move here,” Alex offered hesitantly. I could tell this wasnae the entire tale, so I dinnae take offense that the lad clearly had no current fondness for my homeland. Alasdair harrumphed. I shushed him.

  “What about yer ma?” I asked.

  Alex’s gaze cut away. “I don’t think she’ll be coming.”

  “Why not?” I tried to remember what the woman had said earlier. “It seems to me she dinnae say different when yer da mentioned looking the place over. Scotland, I mean.”