by L. L. Muir
Allison’s mouth opened, question furrowing her brow. Malcolm raised a hand to stop her words. “I told ye this was the hard part. A German monarch sat on the throne of England, and that of Scotland as well. Prince Charles, rightful heir to Scotland’s crown, made a bid to reclaim the throne, and in 1745, he arrived on Scotland’s shores and changed history.”
The scrape of a chair on the wooden floor snatched Malcolm’s notice as Robert, his eyes now clear and curious, settled next to him. “My grandfather told stories of the ’45,” he breathed, animosity replaced with attentiveness. “Go on.”
Malcolm rolled his glass between his fingers. “I was with the Earl of Cromartie’s forces in the spring of ’46.” He ignored Allison’s gasp. “We took Dunrobin Castle from the Earl of Sutherland, then left to join Prince Charles’ forces at Inverness.”
“Culloden,” Robert breathed.
The whispered word sent Malcolm back in time. Bitterly cold air filled Malcolm’s nostrils. Snow stung his cheeks and hands and his feet froze in boots too worn to keep out the cold. The crunch of frosty ground rustled beneath tramping feet. Popping sounds filled the air, cries of surprise and pain mingling with shouts of anger. Ahead of him loomed the shore of the loch, edged with ice and the promise of death. Behind him rifles barked and swords whistled their battle song. Hands pushed at him as men rushed past, flinging themselves into the water.
Something warm and furry leapt into his lap, and a low-pitched whine filled his ears. Malcolm blinked and met the liquid gaze of Allison’s wee dog.
Dark brown eyes fringed with unruly tufts of white fur stared at him. Hesitantly, Malcolm dragged a hand over the hard dome of the shaggy head. The wiry hair smoothed beneath his fingers and he stroked the head again. Slowly his breathing returned to normal as his hand continued its repetitive, soothing rhythm. The dog licked Malcolm’s hand once then settled across Malcolm’s kilted legs with a sigh.
Allison closed the door the dog had pushed open as Robert poured Malcolm another shot of whisky. Fergus licked at a spilled drop.
Malcolm continued. “On the way, our troops were attacked by Sutherlands. Most of the officers were captured. The soldiers were either killed or driven into Loch Fleet where they drowned.”
“And you?” Allison asked, keeping a skittish distance from Malcolm’s seat.
“I grew up swimming in the coldest waters Scotland can boast. It nearly killed me to remain in the loch long enough for the government men to give up, assuming those of us still in the water were as good as dead. But I escaped and continued on to Inverness where I met up with a group of Frasers and a campfire.”
“Did you fight at Culloden?” Robert asked, eyes wide with wonder at Malcolm’s tale.
Allison flung her hands into the air. “Oh, come on, Robert!” she burst out. “Don’t tell me you believe he fought in a war that was, what, two hundred years ago?”
“Two hundred and seventy, actually,” Malcolm corrected. The others ignored him.
“And why am I the one defending him?” Robert challenged. “You always were the one to believe every sad story you heard.”
“I’ve become cynical,” she drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Robert blinked. “Yes, that’s what he is, isn’t it?” He turned back to Malcolm. “Why are you here?”
Malcolm recalled Soni’s soft words. “To do a heroic deed and say my piece with Prince Charlie.” Allison and Robert stared at him, their jaws slack. “And to face my fears and be delivered from my memories.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A heroic act?” Robert scoffed.
“Face your fears?” Allison added, waving a hand at Robert to shush him. “If you’re already dead,” and the skepticism on her face indicated she found that hard to believe, “then what do you fear?”
Malcolm’s fingers clinched tight on Fergus’ fur. The dog licked his hand and wagged his stubby tail. The tension building between Malcolm’s shoulders eased and he managed a half-smile. “The day after I escaped the loch, I was killed by a bayonet thrust to my chest. That is where the red stain on yer hands comes from.”
Allison and Robert each looked instantly at their palms. There was nothing.
“So, what’s this heroic act you’re supposed to perform?” she asked.
Malcolm shook his head. “I dinnae know. Since I am here, my task must be to protect ye.”
Allison frowned. “The only trouble I’ve had since you arrived is the rick fire getting out of control. But you didn’t stop that.”
“Nae,” Malcolm agreed. “I couldnae do better than the lads who came in the big trucks.”
“Is fire something you fear?” she asked shrewdly.
“Nae. I dinnae fear fire.” He recalled the warmth of the Fraser campfire that had saved his life.
“Other than the memories that seem to keep sucking you down whenever I mention my name or there’s loud noises, what do you fear?” she asked.
His face whitened as he felt compelled to answer. “Water.”
Robert laughed. “Well, Allison is always going on about how you have to have perfect water to make good whisky, so you’ve come to the right place to face that fear.”
Allison sent him an exasperated look. “I don’t think our shallow creek is a thing to be feared,” she informed him archly.
“It is if someone tampers with the springs,” Robert shot back, a smug grin on his face.
Breath flew from her lungs as though she’d been punched in the gut. Hard. Her fingers reached for the back of the chair before her and she gripped it between nerveless fingers in support for her wobbly legs. Snapshots of the springs flashed through her mind, recalling details of the security precautions and her grandfather’s words as he explained it to her.
“Grandfather had the springs fenced in years ago. It’s locked up.”
“But he never put security cameras up, did he?” Robert asked.
“Whoever hikes up there?” she retorted. “It’s not that easy to get to.”
“If someone wished to harm the distillery, they would find a way, lass,” Malcolm said.
The acid in the back of her throat told her Malcolm was right. She eyed his well-over-six-foot frame sprawled in the chair, her dog in his lap. “Why should I not think you created the problem, instead of coming to fix it?”
“Ye dinnae know me,” Malcolm agreed. “But I am more than willing to help ye—even if ye are a Sutherland.”
The intimate quirk of his lips reminded her of his reaction to her mention of the distillery name. He didn’t know where he was. It doesn’t mean I think he is a ghost, no matter what my nerdy cousin wants to believe, but it does mean he isn’t likely to have caused harm. She took a deep breath, energized. “Let’s check it out.”
They exited through the rear door of the building only a few yards from the warehouse. She led them a winding course across the wide aisles of the building and out a side door where two all-terrain vehicles loitered. Jumping in the driver’s seat of one, she reached for the start button.
“How come you always get to drive?” Robert groused as he slouched into the passenger seat, propping his feet on the dash.
Allison ignored Robert and glanced over her shoulder to make certain the Scotsman was settled in the back. He grasped one of the overhead roll bars, Fergus beside him, the dog’s nubby tail wagging excitedly. Punching the button beneath her fingertip, she drowned out Robert’s complaints as the ATV roared to life.
They left the sturdy vehicle at the bottom of the hill where the rocky, rutted trail ended and the steep footpath began. Last fall’s leaves were a slippery mess and Robert roundly cursed the smooth soles of his loafers as he grabbed a slender sapling to keep from falling. He shuffled upright and disdainfully dusted bark and debris from his palms.
“Are you going to make it?” Allison asked. He answered her with a glare and she shrugged. With a quick glance at Malcolm, who seemed unfazed by the hike before them, she
set off up the trail, marked only by the faded blaze of orange paint on trees and rocks along the way.
Mindful of the warming weather, she kept her hands off the sun-kissed massive rocks that cropped up beside the path, eyeing the area for snakes as they trudged on. Though, from the racket Robert was making, any snake with an iota of self-preservation would be long gone from the region.
Malcolm paced alongside, his footsteps firm in the leaves. She saw him glance at Fergus who darted through the leaves, nose to the ground, clearly delighted by the smells in the damp earth.
“He calms you, doesn’t he?” she asked, brushing a green, leaf-tipped limb away.
“Aye. `Tis the slow, repetitive movement, I believe,” he replied. “Rabby …”
“Who was Rabby?” she prodded when he didn’t continue.
“Another ghost at the moor. A lad, no more than ten summers who’d followed his da from home. He and his dog were hit by shrapnel and counted among the dead that day.”
A deep chill that had nothing to do with the way the spring leaves filtered the warmth of the sun flashed through her veins. How can he make it sound so real?
“Dauphin, his dog, would sometimes sit with me when my memories were too intense. Seemed to know it helped.” He shot her a sheepish look. “The lads dinnae like being around me when the nightmares struck.”
“Lads?”
“Ghosts. There were 79 of us.”
“Were?”
“Aye. A wee witch named Soni has offered us the chance to end our days of haunting. Several have gone on—accomplished their deed.”
“Do you think you will do yours?” she asked in spite of her reservations.
“I dinnae know. Sometimes things are so dim—as if nothing matters but the terrible things in my head.” He sighed. “Mayhap we will get this settled so ye and young Robert back there can live yer lives without threat to the distillery. That would be an accomplishment, aye?”
Allison stole a look over her shoulder. “You have no idea,” she murmured. Robert slipped on the leaves again and fell forward, catching himself on his hands before he sprawled in the rich organic mess. She hid a smile at his disgust as he wiped his palms down his once-immaculate slacks. “He doesn’t like to be dirty,” she excused him to the Scotsman.
“He’s a wee bit disgruntled,” Malcolm agreed.
“Perhaps more than just disgruntled,” Allison added in a low voice. “Our grandfather owned this distillery. My father, his partner, died several years ago. I pretty much grew up here, though I’ve been away at school for several years.” The muscles in her face softened and warmth of childhood memories lit her heart. “I knew every inch of this place from the mash tubs to the warehouses. Robert visited occasionally, but preferred grandfather’s office and all the awards on the walls.
“Then Grandfather died and left the distillery to me. I think Robert was rather put out.”
“Put out?”
“Upset. This place is in my blood. Robert doesn’t understand it like I do. But I think he wanted to be in charge. I’m thinking about offering to let him buy in. It will make him angry that I don’t offer the partnership freely, but he needs to have a stake in it, not just fancy himself sitting at grandfather’s desk, ordering people around.”
“I’d offer him a place shoveling coal and the opportunity to work his way up from there,” Malcolm observed drily.
Allison giggled. “I’d love to see that!” She halted, slanting her sturdy tennis shoes sideways on the path to keep from sliding backward. She held up a hand to forestall questions, and turned her face up the trail, listening intently. “Hear the waterfall?” she asked. The two men shifted their feet for purchase in the brittle leaves.
“Just up ahead, aye?” Malcolm replied.
She nodded. “Come on. Not much further.” Her gaze fell to Robert as he clutched the branch of a tree for support. “We can come back for you if you’d like to wait for us,” she teased.
He snorted, a gasp mingled with a wheeze as he caught his breath. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Tossing Malcolm a challenging grin, Allison bolted up the path, shoving limbs aside. Malcolm matched her stride for stride, his gait not wavering. Ghost or not, he’s in shape, she approved. But something bothered her about the frayed edges to his jacket and the rags wrapped about the tops of his boots that seemed clean enough, but stained as though they didn’t see a washing machine very often—if at all. She didn’t have time to process that thought as the waterfall loomed before them, the chain link fence surrounding the cinderblock building encasing the springs less than a hundred yards upstream.
She halted, hands on her hips, staring at the precautions her grandfather had considered adequate to protect the precious water flowing to the distillery at the foot of the mountain.
“Looks formidable, aye?”
The Scotsman’s voice at her shoulder rose above the noise of the water. “I don’t know if we can get close enough to check the block building. There are no pumps to move the water—it all flows by gravity down the hill—so we rarely have anyone traipse up here to check anything.” She glanced at the water oozing about her feet. “We’ve had a wet spring and the ground is really saturated.”
A touch to her shoulder. “Yer wee cousin found a path.”
Her gaze flew down the length of Malcolm’s arm to where he pointed. An oak tree partially hid Robert, his back to them, neck bent as he studied something in his hands.
Before Allison could call out, Fergus bounded up the hill, leaves scattering in his wake and leapt against Robert’s leg. Startled, Robert’s arms windmilled as he clutched at the air. He landed on the seat of his pants with a soft thud. He scrambled to his knees, palms frantically patting the wet leaves.
“Help me!” he screamed as he spun about, flinging water and wet leaves like a madman.
Allison strode to his side, dodging the airborne debris. She nudged his backside with her shoe. “Get up. A little mud isn’t going to kill you.” His panicked face, ghastly white, alarmed her. “What’s wrong, Robert?”
“I lost it!” He returned to his wild search of the ground.
“Stop. Just stop. Tell me what happened. You’re filthy.”
He pounced on something in the leaves and clutched it to his chest. Allison braced one fist on her hip, extending her other hand expectantly. “Give it here.”
“No.” His voice lacked conviction, but he didn’t budge.
Malcolm reached for the article hidden in Robert’s hands. Robert scooted backward, slapping at Malcolm’s hand. With a swift move, Malcolm snatched the smooth glass cylinder from the younger man’s grasp. Robert bolted to his feet, grabbing Malcolm’s jacket, battering his arm in protest.
Malcolm paused. “Do ye wish to fight me, lad? Ye cannae hurt me, and I dinnae wish to harm ye.”
“Give that back!” Robert’s face took on a mulish expression, his eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
Turning the vial over in his hand, Malcolm shook his head. “I think yer cousin should see it first.”
Robert threw a half-hearted punch that slid through the air and connected with nothing. He sank back to the ground, defeated, uncaring of the state of his once-pristine clothing.
Malcolm handed the glass tube to Allison. She took it hesitantly, giving Malcolm a questioning look. The top was sealed with a rubber stopper and she waffled the cylinder from side to side. The liquid within was clear, giving her no clue to its identity. Her heart thudded heavily in apprehension.
“Tell me what this is, Robert,” she commanded in a firm, quiet voice.
Robert shrugged, clearly unwilling to confess.
Malcolm sighed and grasped the young man by his shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Allison’s desire to protect her cousin fled and for an instant she wished the braw Scotsman would make a fist and knock some sense into the sniveling worm who wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“The liquid. What is it?” she repeated.
“I don’t know,”
Robert huffed.
“Ok. Let’s make this easy for you. What does it do and where did you get it?”
“That’s two questions at once, lass. It may be too much for him as rattled as he is,” Malcolm observed pityingly.
“It would contaminate the water,” Robert sulked, his gaze still glued to the ground.
“The water to the distillery?” Allison gasped, the air knocked from her lungs in disbelief. Robert hesitated, then nodded.
“Where did ye get it?” Malcolm demanded.
Several long silent moments passed. Allison considered asking Malcolm to give Robert a wee incentive to speak. Robert wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and shrugged.
“Sandy. He gave it to me.”
Allison couldn’t speak. It was unthinkable.
“Who is Sandy?” Malcolm asked.
“He’s our master distiller,” she whispered, unable to find her voice.
“I wasn’t going through with it,” Robert protested.
Anger roared to life inside Allison. She fisted her hands and took a step toward her treacherous cousin. He shrank back, still in Malcolm’s grip.
“You little, double-crossing bag of snot! What do you mean, not go through with it? You brought this up here, dropped it on the edge of the creek—”
“And got it back. You saw me! I decided not to do it!” he screeched at her. “I want to run the distillery, not ruin it.”
“Does Sandy want to ruin it?” she demanded.
Robert cut his eyes away from her angry gaze. “He already is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Anger at Robert’s answer spiraled through Malcolm. Something more important than a heroic deed fueled his desire to get a complete answer. Allison’s livelihood was at stake and that meant more to him than he thought possible. “What is yer man doing?” He gave Robert a light shake to help coax an admission from him. Robert’s head snapped back on his neck.
Robert grabbed at Malcolm’s hand. “All right! Just make him stop,” he implored with a glance at Allison.
Malcolm hissed through his teeth and released the rightly-named bag of snot. Robert staggered then righted himself, jerking his jacket lapels to straighten it across his shoulders.
