MacLeod

by Cathy MacRae

  “And then I found ye. ’Twas not turning back time and saving yer wee brother—though I’d tried to sell my soul for that verra thing. And ’twas not punishing all Englishmen for what a few had done. Ye woke my heart again. To my surprise, it again has the capacity to care—to love.”

  His eyes pleaded as his grip on my hands tightened. “Please dinnae leave me. There is in me a spot only ye can fill.”

  “Can ye not free him from Raasay House?” I begged Soni, my gaze tearing from the wealth of love in Alasdair’s eyes. “There is nae reason he should not be content and remember no more what kept him here. I will trade my boon for his chance to rest at peace. What say ye?”

  Soni shook her head. “’Tis a noble offer, Sorcha MacLeod. But yer ties here are broken. Ye now know the fate of yer family and have acquitted yerself well helping young Alex reconcile with his family and breaking Alasdair’s curse. Now ’tis time to accept yer boon.”

  I faced Alasdair, lacing my fingers with his. “I havenae felt so whole as I have since I met ye. It cheers me to know ye are now free.”

  “Ye dinnae look cheerful,” he remarked, an eyebrow arched above his expressive brown eyes.

  I smiled through building tears and gently pulled free of his grip. “Farewell, Alasdair. It seems I must be about my next step. I believe Prince Charlie has some answering to do.”

  Alasdair stepped to Alex’s side and placed an arm about the lad’s shoulders. “I’ll see him back to the house. Give the prince a question from me, aye?”

  Alex’s eyes widened as he viewed the tableau around him. But he kept his words and thoughts to himself. Mayhap ’twas my imagination, but it seemed he stood a wee bit taller with Alasdair by his side. My last sight was of the two of them, their dark blond heads and stance giving them an uncanny look of closeness. Before I could remark on it, the air changed, and I knew I was no longer on the beach near Raasay House.

  *

  A fire burned in the hearth, casting golden light about the room, pushing ineffectively at the dark shadows. From the dress of the woman sitting close to the bed, ’twas winter outside, and despite the fire, nose-biting cold lurked in the corners of the room.

  Someone lay on the bed and I crept closer for a better look. The woman glanced up, startled, and I halted, surprised she could see me.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice a curious inflection, though her words were in French.

  “My name is Sorcha MacLeod,” I answered. “I am here to see the prince.”

  A sorrowful look crossed her face. “He is here before you. It is likely his last day on this earth.”

  I took a cautious step forward, my gaze focused on the man beneath the pile of blankets. The skin of his face showed an unhealthy hue, even in the poor lighting, with dark tracings of veins scattered like lacework across his sagging cheeks and bulbous nose. A velvet cap topped his head—no doubt to help keep him warm—and the bed clothes and rich appointments in the room bespoke a privileged life.

  “Did you know my father?” the woman asked. “I do not recall seeing you here before.”

  I glanced from her simple brocade gown to my own skirt, astonished to find myself in a serviceable gown that bespoke the period, not my modern dress from Raasay House. I was, however, still sixteen.

  “My, er, family knew of him in Scotland,” I ventured. “I had wished to speak with him, but I fear I am too late. My condolences.”

  “Don’t leave yet,” she begged. “His brother, the Cardinal, will be here shortly, but ’tis a lonely vigil. Would he know you?”

  I shook my head. “No. Tales of the prince have been told in my family. As I am Scottish, I cannae say the stories are completely endearing.”

  The woman jerked to her feet. “I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, but my manners have fled. Please be seated. I am Charlotte, Duchess of Albany.”

  I dropped a deep curtsy, my eyes to the floor. “Your Grace.”

  She waved away my words, pulling me to my feet. “Please sit. My mother was Scottish, and I miss the sound of her speech.”

  For a time we chatted briefly about Scotland. On the bed, Prince Charles Stuart labored for breath.

  The duchess canted her head to the side as she gazed at her sire. “His life is at an end. And I wish I could say these last years have been good to him. But they have been quite the opposite. My mother left him years ago, and his marriage to Princess Louise did not last long. ’Twas only in his loneliness that he remembered my existence at all and asked me to live with him. I have done what I could to ease his last few years, but excessive drink and his temper do not pair well together, and he has lost more than he could stand—including his life.”

  I stared at the prince. Gone was the flush of charismatic youth. Gone was the young man who’d captured the heart and imagination of a nation. Despite his comfortable means, his life had been one of disappointment and despair.

  “I will leave ye now, Yer Grace,” I said as I rose. “I believe I have seen what I was meant to. My family was much embittered by his failure to claim Scotland’s throne, but I now see there was little grandeur for him in the end.”

  “No, his life has been very troubled. You are kind to see this.”

  I shook my head. “Not kindness. Mayhap a bit of sympathy, ’tis all.”

  “He never gave up his dream to return to Scotland,” she said.

  To that I had no reply.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I walked through the door of the palazzo into a bitter winter night. Not so different from when I’d left Raasay at Soni’s whim mayhap only an hour or so earlier. Tiny snowflakes lit on my hair and I tasted the white ice on my tongue.

  Of the two other people on the street, bundled heavily against the night air, neither paid me the slightest attention.

  What was I to do now? What would happen next? I’d had a few minutes in a room with the dying prince and discovered he was a sixty-seven-year-old fat invalid addicted to too much alcohol. Scarcely the stuff legends are made of. Yet even in the modern age I’d just left, a Jacobite could be spotted as he toasted Prince Charlie by passing his drink surreptitiously over a glass of water, a tribute to the prince exiled across the sea.

  I leaned against one of the columns at the front entrance, the guards having stepped inside against the cold. No doubt they would rebuff any who dared enter the palazzo without permission, but they could scarcely worry over one weary ghost.

  “’Twas not what ye expected.”

  I lifted my head at Soni’s words, not too surprised to find her nearby. “My boon was to speak a few words with the prince, not watch him die.”

  “Ye could have said what ye wished.”

  “For all the good it would do me.” I waved a hand in the air. “Never mind. I am too weary of it all to argue with ye now.”

  “He died a wretched man, unworthy of the fierce loyalty the Scots showed him.”

  I jerked away from the pillar, hands clenched into tight fists. “He may have been wretched and unworthy, but at least he had money and a place to sleep. He even kept his lofty status, calling himself Charles III after his da died, and benefitting from his brother’s largesse, whilst the Highlanders were left to deal with the poverty and utter misery set on them by the Hanoverian government.”

  “Ye are correct. But the man who led the Jacobites to disaster was scarcely more notable than the man you saw tonight. He charmed many, Sorcha, not the least of whom was that woman’s poor mother.”

  “She still believed in him.”

  “Nae, she still loved him, and I believe felt dismay for what he’d become.”

  I glanced at my hands, releasing the tension in my fists as my fingers spread wide. Looking about me, I breathed the cold air, feeling the heavy ache as it settled in my chest.

  “I pity him,” I murmured. “He was beset from all sides by those who wished to push, shove and follow him to court. He died wretchedly alone, and never attained what he considered was his birthright.”

 
“And you, Sorcha? What about you?”

  “I may have died forty-three years before him, but at least I lived sixteen wonderful years.”

  “I believe she understands.”

  I pivoted toward the new voice. A tall, slender man in a long black cape strolled down the street, the toe of his cane tapping against the cobblestones. Soni gave him a hug and turned to me, a beaming smile on her face.

  “It truly wouldnae be altering things a great deal, Uncle,” she said with a winsome tilt to her head. “And she has learned so much!”

  The man—her uncle—frowned. “Ye’ve found a new way to bend the rules, have ye, lass?” He gave me a searching look. “Is there anything ye regret, Sorcha MacLeod?”

  My mind went blank beneath his piercing gaze and I wondered if I’d been caught snitching pasties from ma’s cooling shelf. I shook myself to dispel the memory and swallowed as I gathered my errant thoughts.

  “Nae. I would have still followed my brothers off to war. They were my closest friends, no matter the trouble they caused.”

  “Puddies in yer bed?” Soni asked sympathetically.

  I bit my lip. “I put the frogs in their bed,” I admitted unhappily.

  The man snorted and turned his head to cough into his gloved fist.

  “I regret not being able to spend more time with Alasdair,” I said in an attempt to turn their attention from my misdeeds as a youth. But I truly meant it. Alasdair had been unexpected, a link to my past I could share with no other. And a truly honorable man who said he’d miss me.

  “She could let Alasdair know the truth,” Soni offered with a tug on her uncle’s cape.

  “What? That Prince Charlie wasnae bonnie when he died?” I snorted.

  Both she and her uncle glanced at me. “No, that young Alex is descended from wee Duncan on his mother’s side.”

  Elation raced through me. ’Twas no wonder they had a similar look. And if his ma had heard half the stories I had about life on Raasay after Culloden and the why and how of her great-great-something grandda fleeing the island, ’twas clear she would have reservations about moving there, dreading to dredge up a past of which she wasnae a part. I shook my head. She would soon learn the island’s people were as warm and welcoming now as they had been when I lived there.

  “Can I tell him?” I asked. “I would like that above all else.”

  Soni cut a smile between the two of us. “I think we can do better than that.”

  EPILOGUE

  Alasdair gave a snort at the shiny pole and line young Alex waved in the air as he sprinted across the beach. “Ye cannae fish with that contraption! Do ye not know there is a law that states all lines must be the same length or risk putting one fisherman at an advantage over the other?”

  Young Alex skidded to a halt. “Truth?” He looked from Alasdair to me, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Leave off teasing the lad, Alasdair,” I laughed. “’Tis an outdated law, and the lad can use that—whatever it is—if he wishes.”

  Alasdair grabbed my hand and pulled me beneath one arm in a gentle hug. “Then we’ll watch and see how it works.” He winked at Alex. “And hope the lad doesnae get pulled into the sea by a whale.”

  “No kelpies?” Alex ventured with a grin.

  “Nae. Though I’ve heard tale of selkies in the area.”

  “Tell me!” Alex demanded, his face alight with the hope of a story.

  Alasdair waved him off. “Hie yerself to the water and cast yer line. I have something I wish to discuss with Sorcha.”

  Alex grinned and charged down the beach to a large rock in the distance where he settled for an afternoon of fishing. With luck, he and his parents would dine on fresh fish this eve.

  I turned to Alasdair. “What did ye wish to discuss?”

  Holding my hand firmly, he gave a jerk of his chin to the lad soaking up the sun and a good bit of water as he cast his line into the ocean. “Have I given ye thanks for telling me of Alex’s story?” he asked, his eyes searching mine, a sunny a smile tilting his lips.

  I gave the matter some thought, pondering his question for several long moments. With a shout of rueful laughter, Alasdair grasped my waist and lifted me into the air. Suspended above him, I stared into his beloved face.

  “Aye. Though not today,” I teased him. “Ye should thank me properly.”

  He lowered me slowly until our lips touched, then eased me further until my feet reached the ground. I wrapped my arms about his neck and accepted his more than adequate thanks.

  ’Twas good to be home.

  *

  On a tiny island between Skye and the mainland—an island no more than fifteen miles long and four miles wide—lies the reconstructed manor house that once belonged to the chief of the MacLeods. Many changes have come over Raasay House in the centuries since the battle of Culloden Moor changed the fate of Scotland and a loyal group of Jacobites determined to put a Stuart king back on the throne.

  One of the changes is ever-enduring, and if you look about you at just the right time, and listen closely over the cries of eagles and the voicings of whales, dolphins and seals, you might catch sight of a pair of young ghosts, hand-in-hand, as they explore their island home, or hear them call a warning to a strayed visitor to their fair isle—even if he’s an Englishman.

  The End

  A note from the author:

  I will admit to taking liberties with the delightful Raasay House Hotel on the Isle of Raasay. Whilst doing research for this book, I became enamored of the house’s long, difficult history and made the decision to use it for the setting for this ghost story. If any of the descriptions are incorrect, confusing or misleading, the mistake is mine. And to my knowledge, no ghost has ever haunted the place, though with its past, it would certainly be plausible.

  Please consider a visit to Raasay House if you are in the area. I know I will. Perhaps I shall see you there.

  *

  And, if you’ve enjoyed this book in The Ghosts of Culloden series, your review would be much appreciated. Thanks!

  The 79 have a website: http://ghostsofcullodenmoor.weebly.com/ and a face book page: https://www.facebook.com/GhostsofCullodenMoor/ Come visit with us!

  MORE BOOKS by Cathy MacRae

  The Highlander’s Bride Series:

  The Highlander’s Accidental Bride (book 1)

  The Highlander’s Reluctant Bride (book 2)

  The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (book 3)

  The Highlander’s Outlaw Bride (book 4)

  The Highlander’s French Bride (book 5)

  With DD MacRae:

  Highland Escape

  In The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series:

  Adam (book 11)

  Malcolm (book 16)

  MacLeod (book 21)

  About the Author

  Cathy MacRae lives on the sunny side of the Arbuckle Mountains where she and her husband read, write, and tend the garden—with the help of the dogs, of course.

  You can visit with her on facebook, or read her blogs and learn about her books at www.cathymacraeauthor.com. Drop her a line—she loves to hear from readers!

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  This ebook is a work of fi
ction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.