Ghosts of Culloden Moor 24 - The Bugler

by L. L. Muir

  And he was certain that by tomorrow, his eyes will have rolled right out of his head.

  He could take no more mocking, so he lifted up onto his knees, intending to move to the ladder. But he stopped when he heard the click of the door latch.

  Heavy boots stomped inside. “Confess, woman!”

  The man’s voice shook Morey to the core. It cannae be!

  “Oh, my wife! Ye love another man!”

  The woman giggled. “I do, sir. And readily do I confess.”

  “And just where is this lover?” In truth, he didn’t sound upset as he strode around the room, searching.

  The wife sighed. “He is in his cradle, where else? And I shall also confess that I have kissed him more this day than I have kissed ye the past year, I vow it!”

  The pair laughed quietly while Morey’s heart and soul writhed in turmoil. Was it truly his father standing just below him? He dared not look! But if the woman was his mother, how could he resist? Oh, to look upon her face and remember!

  No wonder the tune chimed in his heart. No wonder the words cut into his soul. Oh, the exquisite torture! The possibilities! But what would either of them say to him if he descended from the loft and claimed to be the ghost of the bairn in the next room?

  No matter the madness of it, he could control himself no longer. Bumping knees and elbows like a growing lad, he fumbled his way to the ladder, hoping the sound of his bumbling might at least warn the couple they were not alone.

  He took a deep breath and started down. The familiar ladder beneath his hands would have to wait for a later inspection. His feet reached the floor and he turned slowly, no idea what to expect from the silence at his back. But he expected…something at least.

  Instead, he was ignored outright. The two were locked in an ardent embrace. But at least it gave him a moment to take in the sight of a mother whose face he had never truly remembered. She’d died when he was four.

  Her hair was sable and shone in the light of the fire now dancing on the hearth. Her form was as willowy as the young witch’s, but for a slightly round belly. Her face was similar enough to his own that she could have been a sister.

  Morey’s attention was drawn to the bedroom door and the baby that might lie sleeping inside.

  His mother giggled and pulled away from his father. “‘Tis no use, Morten. Ye could kiss me all night and still not win the game.”

  “Drat!” His father kissed her once more, on the forehead, and let her go.

  Morey braced himself, not ready to explain, but ready to try. His parents, however, didn’t notice him. They walked around him, as if they knew he was there, but never touched him, never looked his way. He was…a ghost.

  “Father!” He placed himself between the hearth and the young version of the man he remembered. His father moved to the side to dig through the basket where bread was kept, but he found nothing.

  “Bread tomorrow, my love.” His mother settled in a rocking chair and picked up her needlework.

  “Oh, my love is it? With yer other love fast asleep, ye’ll settle for my presence, will ye?” Morton moved to her quickly, took her work from her hands, and placed it back into the familiar basket. “Sarah Fraser, of the Boll of Meal Frasers, ye’ll not work into the night. Ye need rest while the bairn sleeps—”

  “Why must ye do that?” His mother’s smooth brow puckered. “Why must ye always add Boll of Meal Frasers? Can we not just be Frasers?”

  “Nay! ‘Tis just the point, Sarah. We vowed to use the Fraser name and no other, in exchange for food we desperately needed. But Boll of Meal keeps us from forgetting we did not begin this way, that we haven’t always belonged to him. And I’ll make certain our son does not forget it either. If Boll of Meal Frasers brings us no shame, then they cannot shame us with the title, aye?”

  His mother nodded half-heartedly. His father gave her a wink and helped her out of the chair. She toddled toward the bedroom, but turned back with one hand on the wall. Her eyes blinked back tears.

  “I mean it, Morten. My heart might burst on the morrow, I love him so.” She grinned mischievously. “And if I had to choose between the pair of ye today…I’d choose him.”

  Gazing into those sweet, teary eyes, Morey half-believed it!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Still standing in his old home, staring after his happy mother, Morey was slow to notice the hand that slid along his shoulder, then gave his arm a firm squeeze. But it wasn’t his father that touched him, it was Soni.

  “Come. We must go now,” she whispered. “This was all ye were meant to witness.”

  He shook his head. “Surely another moment or so cannae hurt.”

  “It can, Bugler. There is more to see.”

  Mist filled the room and thickened around them. When it cleared again, they were back in the great hall. Lord Lovat paced back and forth between his chair and the fire.

  “Morten Fraser,” someone announced, and Morey’s father entered along with a blonde woman. He looked much older than before. The woman was Lisette, his second wife. Morey had been nine when they’d married. Lisette was a Frenchwoman his father met while abroad with Lord Lovat—Simon the Fox had been playing the French and English against each other and using James Stuart as the stick to stir his pot of trouble.

  “I forbid ye to leave,” the laird barked.

  Morten bowed, then straightened and lifted his chin. “I am here to collect the favor ye owe me, Lord Lovat.”

  “Bah!” Lovat waved his words away. “Ye are beholden to me, Boll of Meal.”

  His father shook his head and produced a document from his vest. “I have yer statement, sworn and signed by ye—”

  “Fine!” Lovat motioned for his man to take the papers, then motioned toward the fire without glancing at them. Once they caught fire, he turned and smiled. “Go, then. Take yer French whore with ye.”

  Morten swallowed the insult to his wife and turned away, but Lovat wasn’t finished with him.

  “If ye mean to rob me of a bugler…ye must replace yerself with a bugler.”

  His father turned halfway back again and shrugged. “My father means to remain—”

  “Aye. He does, and rightly so. But it is ye who must give me a bugler to stand in yer stead.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed. “Ye mean to keep my son!”

  Lovat nodded and a cruel smile leaked across his face. “I do, that.”

  Morten squared his shoulders. “Ye cannae have him.”

  “I do have him, ye bastard. And if ye mean to keep him, ye must send that one on her way and stay with the lad, where ye belong.”

  Lisette’s hands shook. She nodded and spoke quietly to Morten, but Lovat hissed and interrupted.

  “She isnae welcome here. She goes, and she goes this very day. The question is whether or not she goes alone.”

  “How much!” His father’s voice rang through the hall. “How much must I pay ye for my own son?”

  Lovat’s eyes narrowed even as his smile widened. “He’s nae for sale—at any price.”

  “Then I shall stay…and send the lad away with her—”

  “Bah!” Lovat strode off the edge of his dais and didn’t stop until he was nose to nose with Morten. “Ye’ve already shown yer colors. I’ll not have ye here to slice my gullet in the night. Go!”

  Morey’s father turned to his wife and swallowed audibly as he tried to hide his pain. “My father will take fine care of him. And one day—”

  “Nay!” Lovat’s brows danced over eyes sparkling with excitement. “If the lad goes missing, I’ll hunt ye down and slit both yer throats.” He pointed to the woman. “Hers too.” No one dared breath as the monster strode back to his chair, sat, and gripped the ornate arms. “No fare thee wells, Boll of Meal. Depart this instant. I will tell yer sire he’s to see to the lad.”

  “Ye would deny me the chance to see him one last time?” Morten’s face was flushed a deep shade of read, his voice strident and harsh. “Ye’re the devil himself, Simo
n Fraser.”

  Lovat wiggled his arse against the wood of his chair as if he were settling into a deep cushion, but anyone looking on would know he was too pleased to sit still. “I deny ye the chance to break the poor laddie’s fingers, out of spite.”

  Morten turned away in shock. Morey could still see his face and the war of emotions just below the surface. Horror, shame, disbelief…

  The man never chose to leave Morey behind. He was given no choice!

  His father had loved him. His mother had adored him. Even his stepmother, after knowing him for a fortnight, had been willing to leave her husband behind for Morey’s sake. Everything Lovat had told his grandsire—that Lisette insisted his father leave Morey behind, that his father had chosen Lisette over him—had been a lie. The old man had tried to downplay the betrayal, blaming it on his stepmother’s beauty and his father’s weakness for her, but all betrayal tasted the same.

  Except the one who had betrayed Morey now sat in the laird’s seat, cackling and coughing like an old hag!

  A man hurried forward with a tankard from which the laird drank deeply. Then Lovat laughed again.

  “Laird?”

  “I was just wondering what might be more amusing. Should I break the laddie’s wee fingers myself? Or should I turn him into a shepherd?” At the look on his servant’s face, Lovat laughed even harder.

  The corner of Morey’s mouth twitched up as well. The witch’s hand tucked around his elbow and she raised a brow in question.

  “I might have been a better shepherd,” he said with a grin, “had I known I’d been gifted with the less-painful of two fates.” He gave her hand a squeeze to let her know that it wasn’t the only thing he had learned. “Now, Soni, take me away, if ye would.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When the now-familiar mist cleared away, Morey was still standing beside Soni in the great hall at Beaufort Castle. The spacious room had regained its festive décor, however, and the orchestra continued to play from the balcony along one side even though there were no guests about.

  He suspected what the lass had in mind. “I thank ye, Soni, but I am certain I could never fall in love in one night.”

  She scoffed. “And who asked ye to? I only thought that, since we were here, ye might like to take a witch around the dance floor a few times.” She fussed at the ball gown that had suddenly appeared on her body, then gestured toward his belly.

  He looked down at a fine black suitcoat over a kilt of the new Fraser plaid. Oh, the sett was old enough, but hadn’t been created until after the ban on kilts was lifted in 1782. But he was proud to wear it in any case. He’d always considered himself a true Fraser, though he kept his father’s tradition of adding Boll of Meal Frasers.

  It had been grand to hear Morten Fraser, of the Boll of Meal Frasers, explain himself in his own words. And to know his mother’s face again—along with her voice, her song, the words—it was all so priceless!

  “I must thank ye, Soni,” Morey said, as he led her to the empty dance floor. “Ye granted the wish of my heart.” He checked the tempo. “Though it is quite improper, I wonder if ye might wish to waltz with me?”

  She glanced at the entrance, then nodded. “As long as Simon McLaren never hears about it, I think we can survive it.”

  “Auch, lassie. Knowing I was loved, truly and completely, makes me feel quite invincible.” He grimaced. “Though I believe ye’re right to keep our dance secret from the captain.”

  While he and Soni waltzed slowly around the room, he would have sworn he heard a woman’s voice echoing from above…

  “Who doth I love?

  A laddie doth I love.

  And who loveth me?

  My laddie.”

  THE END

  Thank you sincerely for giving The Bugler a chance, even though it was not a romance per se.

  About the Author

  L.L. Muir lives on the Utah side of the Rocky Mountains with her husband and family. She appreciates funny friends, a well-fed campfire, and rocking sleepy children.

  A disturbing amount of cauliflower was consumed while writing THE BUGLER.

  If you like her books, be a sport and leave a review on the book’s Amazon page. You can reach her personally through her website— www.llmuir.weebly.com , or on Facebook at L.L. Muir.

  Thank you for playing!