by L. L. Muir
Wyndham
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 51
L.L. Muir
Green Toed Fairy
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Excerpt from GIVER
A note from the author
Get more books written by L.L. Muir
GHOST SERIES LIST
About the Author
License notes…
For Marlin…
My very real hero
Prologue
How we got here…
On June 20, 2015, Summer Solstice, a fifteen-year-old witch named Soncerae (Soni) went to the battlefield of Culloden Moor, in Scotland. She made a bargain with the 79 Highland ghosts who, strangely enough, had been dear to her all her life. She wanted them to know peace, and she had the power to make that happen.
Soni had arranged to bring each man back to life for a period of two days, but only two days. If they were willing to be sent off to parts unknown, to perform a noble deed, they were promised a chance to confront Bonnie Prince Charlie in the flesh and exact whatever revenge they wished. The end-price they had to pay, however, was to move on to the next life and cease haunting the battlefield forever.
What Soni didn’t tell these ghosts was that, with the help of many other Muir witches, she planned to set them in the paths of troubled women who were in temporary need of a brave and noble Highlander. She hoped her 79 might have a taste of real love before leaving this world, but secretly, she prayed for a miracle--that either the Highlander or his newfound woman would be willing to make a meaningful sacrifice and by doing so, win the chance to live out normal lives together.
Sometimes her prayers were answered.
Sometimes, God had other plans.
Upon Soni’s sixteenth birthday, there was a Reckoning, the details of which can be found in the book by that title. What is important now is that on that night, there were 32 remaining of those 79 Highland ghosts. They stood on Culloden’s battlefield and were made well and whole, brought to life all at a go. The need for noble quests, the chance for revenge, the promise to move on to the next life—all requirements of their bargain—were null and void. Soncerae’s powers were gone. And with them, the ability to match her Highlanders with women who might need and love them.
Her immensely powerful uncle, Wickham, had no choice but to take these resurrected men home with him, to his ranch, to help them navigate their paths into current society. Simon McLaren’s tale has been told for the most part in The Reckoning, Book #50 of The Ghosts of Culloden Moor, but he remains at the ranch with the rest while he waits for Soni’s parents to give permission for them to marry. Doing the math, this leaves 31 Highlanders waiting for their tales to unfold.
This is where the final leg of the journey begins, with Wyndham...
Chapter One
Late March, 2016. Three days after The Reckoning…
With hat in hands, Wyndham took a breath before stepping inside Wickham Muir’s home. Ivy, Wickham’s wife, had grown weary of answering constant knocks on the door and declared the former ghosts were all welcome to come and go as they pleased. But it didn’t make it any easier to enter that morning.
The man of the house sat at the far end of the dining table with stacks of papers at his elbows and a computer open between, the view of Wickham’s chair blocked by the width of his shoulders. To Wyndham’s mind, the man needed a grander seat more befitting his station as laird of a modest clan of warriors.
He held his breath and waited to be noticed.
Wickham glanced up, then glanced up again and closed his computer before waving him forward. “Good morning.”
“Yer lairdship.”
The man opened his mouth to argue that he was not, indeed, laird of any clan but he closed it again. No doubt he was as weary of repeating denials as his wife was in answering doors. “What can I do for ye…I beg yer pardon. I’ve forgotten many names.”
Wyn lifted his hand to salute, but dropped it quickly. “Wyndham McLeish, sir. Wyn.”
The man nodded at his hand. “Old habits die hard, aye? So, what can I do for ye, Wyn?”
“I do not mean to sound ungrateful…but I’d like to return to Culloden before the first of March.”
Wickham appeared curious, not offended. “Have ye left something behind?” He frowned when another man emerged from the kitchen wearing brown insulated coveralls and holding a turkey leg in one hand. He was not one of the 79.
Wickham held up a finger to Wyn, then barked at the other man. “Mr. Dixon, what are ye doing in my kitch—” His eyes widened. “How are ye in here while, even now, I can hear yer backhoe runnin’?”
The man grinned. “They wanted to learn how to work the machine, so I taught ‘em. But dinnae worry. They’re only practicin’.” He puffed out his chest. “I dug the latrines personal. Then that MacTavish fellow suggested I come in and find refreshment. The sign on the fridge said to help m’self.”
“MacTavish.” Wickham growled the name as if he’d done so many times, though the remainder of the 79 had only been at the ranch for three days. “I suggest ye get back out there, Dixon, and make certain the only holes in my property are the ones I hired ye to dig. I’ll be outside to see for myself…” he checked his watch, “in thirty minutes.”
White-faced, Dixon pushed the turkey leg into Wyn’s hand and hurried out the door.
“MacTavish,” Wickham growled again, then muttered other things Wyn wasn’t meant to hear. “Where were we? Returning to Culloden for something?”
Wyn nodded. “In a manner of speaking. There is a lass, ye see—”
“Uh oh.” Wickham chuckled, then motioned for Wyn to continue.
“This woman has been coming to the moor on the first of each month. Twice, now, she’s worn a scarf with wee yellow owls…” He realized he was smiling and stopped. The owls hardly mattered. “In any case, I need to be there, ye see, when she comes again.”
“She’ll come, ye think, even in the cold?”
“In February she came despite a storm. So aye, she’ll be there.”
Wickham nodded. “I’ll put it on the schedule, but be prepared for disappointment. Many things ye remember might not have happened recently, ye ken? I’ve learned some of ye have memories that don’t track…chronologically.”
“Ye’re sayin’ ye don’t mind if I go, then? And will ye lend me a horse?”
“Ye’re no prisoner here, Mr. McLeish. No contract. We only offer a haven until ye’re comfortable striking out on yer own. I’ll take ye to Culloden because Soni would skelp me otherwise. And a nicely heated car will be much more comfortable for both our sakes.” With a pair of fingers, he tapped a large poster lying beneath his computer. “I’ll add ye to the schedule and we’ll make certain to get ye there early, so there is no chance of missing yer lass.” He lowered his brow. “If she comes.”
Wickham didn’t understand. The woman would come, Wyn was certain. And that certainty was enough to keep the cold from seeping into his bones while he spent the rest of the day adding insulation to the walls of the big barn. The place was to be made habitable for him and the thirty-odd Highlanders who had only recently been brought back to life on the day of The Reckoning. The better part of Culloden’s 79 ghosts had been resurrected beforehand, a few at a time, and according
to the wee witch who’d preformed the miracles, those men were well and goodly settled.
When Wyn imagined being settled, it was with a certain lass by his side—a lass with a scarf bearing wee yellow owls…
God made the earth in six days and rested on the seventh. With the help of Wyn and the others, Wickham Muir came very close with a similar marvel. Six days of hard labor, despite the dangerous temperatures, nearly transformed the man’s horse ranch. And on the seventh day after Culloden’s warriors had been relocated from the battlefield--where they’d haunted for nearly three hundred years--they, too, were able to rest.
But more importantly, they were able to bathe.
The first night, they slept in the small barn, wrapped tight in their kilts and burrowed into the clean hay. The second night was made more comfortable by a large brazier placed in the center of the grand barn. With the arrival of tools and supplies, it only took the third day to put up insulation and drywall, what with more than two dozen of them sharing the work. On day four, more lumber arrived, and pallets were erected three high. Mr. Dixon had come that morning to dig a long trench, and a crew of competent Highlanders designed and erected a privy house over the top of it.
Electric tools were a wonder to hold in one’s hands, and these made their way into the possession of those who showed the most talent with them. Natural leaders, like Simon McLaren, moved the work along. And those with engineering experience, and others with obvious vision, were tasked with drawing plans and giving instruction.
Lists of supplies were ordered and paid for by Wickham, who never once balked at the cost of things. After the man and his family retired for the night, there were hushed whispers of the male witch having the power to move through time itself. And since Wyn saw no reason to doubt it, after all he’d seen, he reckoned such a man might nip and tuck a coin or two from any number of treasures over the centuries, to cover expenses.
Wickham and his wife called up orders, and trucks arrived. Papers were signed and not a farthing was exchanged. It was a true wonder to behold.
His wife, Ivy, had a devil of a time chasing after her own wee laddies while trying to keep so many workmen fed, but her burden was lightened on day five when the detached garage was adapted into a kitchen. She helped plan menus and ordered the food, but gave the cooking over to the former ghosts, freeing up most of her attention for her sons.
Instead of cooking in pots hung from tri-pods over open fires, as they’d done in their eighteenth-century lives, a trio of barbeque grills were set up just outside the garage door. And though four men had volunteered for cooking duty, it only took one rather disastrous lunch of burned ham and cold beans to whittle that number down to two. “With too many cooks in the kitchen,” Ivy reasoned, “they’d all be starved by spring.”
Inside the grand barn, trestles and planks made for quickly erected tables and benches for mealtime. It was the only logical place for gathering, and the warmest, so no one complained about eating in their sleeping quarters. And in the evenings, two of the tables were disassembled and stored along the front wall.
“I apologize for the rough living quarters,” Wickham said on the fifth evening, when men were still jostling for position along the tables. “But remember, this is all just temporary. Ye’ll all be setting out on yer own soon enough, so it’s best ye dinnae get too comfortable, aye?”
On the morning of the sixth day, three trucks arrived. One brought sheets of metal along with two burly men with equipment for bending that metal to their wills. The second truck brought pallets of tile, teak wood, and a small crew to install the stuff. And the third brought meters and meters of pipes, two large cylinders that promised to heat water, and a trio of plumbers.
A long-dormant milk barn, that had sat empty long before Wickham purchased the place, was to be transformed into a bath house. It already boasted running water and electricity, so they expected to make quick work of the place. But alas, welding was a tedious task, and even with all the Highlander manpower the workers might make use of, it was well into the night before the water was sent through the pipes, for testing.
Just as the cheer went up, Ivy slipped inside the door with a case of soap in her arms. But she didn’t seem impressed in the least. In fact, her nose wrinkled, and she winced.
“Well?” She blinked rapidly. “Will it work?”
“Aye,” said one of the plumbers. “We must give the shower tiles two days to dry before we grout, then another two for the grout to cure. But the tubs can be used right away. The teak floors are finished.”
She handed her box to Wyn, then backed toward the door, blinking rapidly. “No offense, boys, but you all reek to high heaven.” She put her wrist up to her nose and coughed. “Don’t forget that church is in the morning. You’ll have to bathe through the night or risk offending folks. And if you won’t bathe for God, you should at least do it for Soni. She’ll be here for supper tomorrow.”
Wyn looked around the bathhouse and chuckled at the uniform expressions of horror on thirty faces. He just couldn’t be sure which agitated them more—bathing or stepping foot inside the kirk after centuries away.
Wyn wasn’t as worried about pleasing God as he was in being presentable for Soncerae, the young witch who had brought him and his fellows back to life. He had questions to put to her, and he wouldn’t want her wincing, like Ivy, at the smell of him. So he was more than happy to test the water, as it were.
Chapter Two
Ivy’s idea to take “the lads” to church that Sunday turned a simple chance to worship into a hostage situation…
She and Wickham decided that St. Columba’s Culloden church, near the battleground, was far too modern for an 18th century Scot. So they packed them up in two fifteen-seater vans and took them into Inverness, to St. Mary’s. Now, a standard fifteen-seater was hardly designed with the size of their Highlanders in mind, but luckily, a good handful of former ghosts weren’t keen on attending mass yet. So the majority of them fit in the vans without too much trouble.
On the bright side, they’d all bathed before the vans left at 9:30 in the morning. Unfortunately, their kilts had been washed—a questionable practice, done in the tubs after bathing, and one that wouldn’t be repeated if Ivy had anything to say about it—but not dried. The men had been forced to find a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the boxes delivered the day before. And since few of them had shaved, and she hadn’t yet been able to find a barber to come to the ranch, she feared the result was her fault.
The parishioners of St. Mary’s must have thought they’d been invaded by a large motorcycle gang who’d lost their coats. And who could blame them?
Large, nervous men stood to either side of the doors as if they expected Cumberland to force his way inside and murder them all over again. Those Highlanders who sat in the pews sat sideways in order to fit their knees, but they, too, watched the doors.
Most of the onlookers who took pictures tried to do so stealthily, while others couldn’t quite get their jaws off the ground. They watched the priest climb his small staircase and waited for him to explain. But when the young father looked up at his congregation, he burst out laughing.
“My, my, what an Outlander crowd we’ve drawn today, aye?” He chuckled again while he flipped through his book. “I’m inspired to read the parable of the three fishes…”
Ivy choked, snorted, then covered her face with her handkerchief while the priest explained how to feed a multitude with a pair of fish and five loaves of bread.
Wickham leaned over to whisper in her ear. “That’s yer problem, love. Clearly ye should have been cooking fish, not turkeys.”
A long sermon and a benediction later, with the same breath he’d used to say Amen, the priest shouted, “No one move!” He hurried down his stairs and sprinted up the aisle to take his station at the grand doors. “All right, then. Everyone out this way if ye please. I’ll know yer names, each and every one of ye, before I allow ye back into the world.”
Wickham g
rimaced. “This cannae be good,” he murmured, then got to his feet.
Alexander tugged on his suitcoat. “What’s the matter, Da? Will Father Donne be frightened when he discovers we’re all ghosties?”
Ivy closed her eyes, then said a little prayer aimed at the rafters before she dared look at Wickham.
“Alexander and I will go start the vans to get them warm, shall we?” He gestured to his son. “Perhaps none of us was quite ready to leave the ranch.”
Ivy thought it might well be the first time she’d ever seen cowardice in her husband. “You don’t want to stand by the priest, as interpreter, in case someone explains too much?”
Wickham chuckled. “And rob Father Donne of a little excitement?” He shook his head. “It’s the Sabbath. I think I deserve a rest from babysitting Highlanders. Let the chips fall as they may today.”
“Just remember you said that tomorrow,” she warned, “when you’re the one who has to sweep up all those chips.”
Ivy was surprised the priest didn’t follow them home. At least, not directly. Later that afternoon, however, just after Wickham’s sisters arrived with Soncerae, a small white clunker turned onto the drive. They all watched as the clergyman climbed out of his car and shuffled forward, now wearing his black robes.
“Forgive me,” he said to Wickham. “Some of your…uh, that is…those men who claimed to live here weren’t able to participate in Holy Communion today, and since so many of them were interested in confession, I thought it might be easier to come to them rather than schedule—”
