by L. L. Muir
Bronagh pointed to his street clothes. “No kit today?”
He shook his head. “Naw. Not up to a show just the now.”
“Are ye unwell?”
He shook his head again, then looked at the big windows and sighed. “Winter doldrums, I suppose.”
She gave him a kind smile. “I can understand that.”
He frowned, then bit his lips together.
“What is it?”
After another sigh, he faced her. “There’s been a change. On the battlefield. I cannae put my finger on it—”
“Spring coming early?”
“Naw. Nothing to do with the weather. It’s not just cold, mind. It’s quiet. Too quiet.”
The battlefield was too quiet? Wasn’t that a good thing for a war grave?
“No sightings for weeks.”
“Sightings? Of spirits?” She swallowed with difficulty. “Ye see them often?” She’d never really believed in ghosts, never known anyone who had. But she would never discount someone who did believe.
“Auch, not just me, o’course. I’ve had more than my share over the years. But the visitors will whisper to me when they’ve seen or heard one of them. Too many to doubt them all, ye ken.”
“Maybe no one’s been outside long enough, yeah? The weather’s been—”
“The weather never stops them. Reports trickle in, even in the coldest of times.” He shrugged, then sipped his coffee to close the topic.
But Bronagh wasn’t nearly finished. In fact, she was warming up, intrigued that she might have been wrong about Wyndham all along. Maybe he hadn’t come from her own psyche at all. Maybe he’d come from outside those big windows!
Holy feckin’ cow! Wyndham McLeish might be real! Or at least, he might have been…
“I know ye’re gonna think I’m mad, but would anyone here know if there is a ghost out there…named Wyndham McLeish?”
Five short minutes later, James was back at the table with a book in hand, his countenance lightened considerably, as if just a simple question about his beloved Culloden was enough to wash away his winter ennui.
“This,” he thumped the cover, “is the muster roll of Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s army from 1745 to 1746. Now, not all men are listed here, but a large number are. This is the best place to start.” He flipped to the back and ran his finger down the pages muttering, “McLeish, McLeish… Here we are.”
His lips moved, then he started flipping through pages again. He left his finger to mark a spot, then flipped again.
“Right, then. We have a Duncan MacLeish with an M.A.C., a pedlar from Perthshire. Only 18 years old. Fought with the Duke of Perth, o’course. Struan’s company. Says here he was transported, so he didn’t die in the battle.” James went back and forth in the book, then lighted on another page. “William McLeish. Servant of John Roy Stuart, Edinburgh, so he would have fought with that bunch. Doesn’t list what happened to him, but many reports were incomplete.”
The ritual repeated.
“John McLeish, weaver. Fought with Atholl’s Brigade. And the very last McLeish recorded has no Christian name. Just a question mark, which is unusual. Fought with Atholl’s as well. Large brigade, extreme right end of the front line. Many losses. Says our mysterious McLeish was a servant to Ballnamuir. No other details. So this may be the McLeish ye’re looking for, aye? Or he may be one of the soldiers not listed officially.”
James seemed so happy to have been of service, she smiled enthusiastically, even though he’d just given her a good reason to believe her Wyndham might be a real soldier who had died in 1746. After he finished his coffee and cake, his restored energy took him out of the café and on to be helpful to the next fella.
Bronagh sat in stunned silence for a bit, half-expecting Wyn to appear on the chair across from her and confess all. After a while, she checked to make sure no one was within earshot and whispered to her erstwhile muse.
“I don’t care what you are, Wyndham. Ghost or muse, I need to see your face, do you hear me? So swallow your pride and come to me. Please, baby. Don’t leave me here alone.”
Her logical mind reminded her it wasn’t the first of the month, so he wouldn’t know to come. But if that was the most rational part of her mind, she was in deep trouble. Real logic would tell her the relationship had been imaginary from the start, that there was never a muse nor a ghost.
But she just couldn’t accept that. And the longer she thought about it, the more it made sense that Wyndham was an actual ghost. All those conversations—she could have never put those words in his mouth.
Their date in October, for instance…
Wyndham was suddenly behind her, leaning over her shoulder. If he’d been real, she would have felt his breath on her, where her owl scarf had fallen off her shoulder and left her neck bare. “Do ye ken how badly I wish to kiss this flesh? And feel it?”
“Ye know I feel the same,” she countered. “But since neither of us can, we should stop torturing ourselves. Besides,” she used her inch-long charcoal and blackened finger to point at the ground in front of her, “ye promised not to move.”
“Nay,” he purred in her ear. “I promised not to move my hand from my hip. And I havnae.” He finally straightened and came back around the end of the bench to resume his pose, his hand resting just where it was supposed to, over his belt. “Are ye certain ye’d not like to draw my sporran?”
She pretended not to notice his teasing smile. “I’m not there, yet. I do not need to study anything but yer arms today, yeah?”
“How about my heart, lass. May I interest ye in this dusty old thing?”
“What are ye on about? Ye gave yer heart to me last month. Four times, if I remember right.”
He grasped the cloth covering his chest. “Auch, so I did. So how shall I fill the void in my breast, if I cannae hold ye in my arms?”
Keeping her concentration on her work, she spoke casually. “Don’t worry. I don’t need two hearts, Wyn.” She kept her face blank while she corrected the angle of his wrist. He held his breath, waiting to see what she meant. “Don’t worry. I’m not giving yers back, ye silly man. I’m offering mine.”
She put down her charcoal and pretended to wrench the organ out of her chest and toss it to him. He made a shamelessly dramatic catch and tucked it into his shirt beneath his tartan sash. The drawing was forgotten for the rest of the afternoon while he shuffled and shifted from one end of the bench to the other, trying to get closer to her and woo her with bad poetry and impossible promises. But sometimes, bad poetry and impossible promises was just what a girl wanted.
One of his poems, she later learned, was written by Robert Burns, and she couldn’t remember having read it before. Ever. And if she’d never read it, how could the man she’d imagined have recited it?
The answer was simple. Wyndham McLeish was no mere muse.
Chapter Fifteen
Wyndham’s second day of self-restraint wasn’t pleasant for anyone on Muir’s ranch because his great plaid was missing. It might have been his problem alone had he not felt it essential to toss thirty-two beds looking for it. With so many tricksters among the former ghosties, it could have been tucked anywhere just to vex him.
No doubt they were a jealous bunch, knowing that the man they’d known as Number 47 had already secured the heart of a red-blooded woman.
It seemed he wasn’t the only one a bit restless that day, and many were pleased for the excuse to throw a fist. In fact, nearly half of the men were happy to oblige after finding their things strewn about. And fortunately, no furniture was broken and no walls were damaged.
Forbes took the offense in stride, as did MacTavish and a dozen more who may or may not have been banned for fighting already. But enough joined in to leave Wyn with a full set of bloody knuckles, a seriously swollen eye socket, and a few tender teeth on the left side of his mouth--nothing time wouldn’t tighten again.
But still, he hadn’t found his kilt.
Forbes sat astride a
long bench, disappointed the show was over. “Auch, now I remember,” he said. “The lady of the house collected some of our old garb and sent it away to be cleaned and pressed. No doubt yer plaid is among those.”
Wyn ground his teeth and glared at the man he’d promised not to pummel for two weeks. MacTavish stepped between them and slapped him in the shoulder. “Allow me to avenge ye, McLeish. I’ll be beating Forbes soundly on Monday. I am happy to draw it out a wee bit in yer name.”
“Ye were supposed to fight me on Monday, if ye remember.”
The taller man nodded. “So I was. But I wouldn’t want to muss yer face more than it already is. Ye’ve a woman to please, do ye not? Already, it will be days before ye’re presentable. And I’m willing to stand down for the sake of true love.”
“Kind of ye.” Wyn shouldered his way between heavy breathers nursing their wounds and headed for the house, still in a foul mood. He wished MacTavish hadn’t reminded him he was still days away from seeing Bronagh again. Waiting until Sunday would drive him mad. But of course, he couldn’t go to her bruised and bloodied when he had yet to win her away from that other Wyndham. But three more days?
He’d first planned to leave her suffering in anticipation for the better part of a month, but that strategy had been abandoned an hour after he’d left her house. He could have never waited so long.
Two weeks seemed much more reasonable—for another hour. And he hadn’t been able to sleep until he’d finally negotiated, with himself, that he would wait just seven days before returning to Inverness to knock on her door. In the bright light of morning, however, he was sure it would be torture enough for them both if he managed to last until Sunday, after services.
Two days gone. Three days to go.
He regretted the need to interrupt the Muir family after supper, but he was still driven to find his tartan, so he stomped up the steps and rapped on the door. The windows were still lit.
Ivy answered the knock and stepped back so he could enter. “Wyndham, isn’t it?”
“Aye, and thank ye. Forgive the late hour, but one of the men suggested ye might have my plaid?”
“Probably. I collected a dozen of them this time. Just got them back from the cleaner’s today. I should have asked permission, but I just couldn’t stand to see any more of them washed in bathtubs full of dirty water.”
It had been washed and handled with as much care as a kinswoman would have afforded it, and he would rather cut out his tongue than harry the woman for hiding it from him.
“I am grateful. I wanted to look my best on Sunday.”
“For church?”
“Aye, that too.”
“I was just sitting down for some tea. Will you join me?” She pointed to the stairs. “Wickham’s putting the boys to bed tonight.”
Wyn joined her at the table, in no hurry to return to the barn for a large helping of crow, as he eventually must, for accusing so many of hiding his kilt.
Ivy returned from the kitchen with a second cup and they took their seats. “You have someone you want to look your best for? Already?”
“Aye. An Irishwoman from Inverness. She used to visit the moor when I was… Before Soni…” He shrugged. “She was able to see me, somehow, when I was nothing more than spirit.”
It might have been the warmth of the tea, the coziness of the house, or the encouraging smile of his audience, but it wasn’t long until he’d recited the entire history that had played out between himself and his beloved Bronagh. His tea had cooled when he was done.
Ivy tested the side of the kettle, then topped off his cup. “You mean to tell me she’s been in love with you for months?”
“Aye.”
“And yesterday was the first time you didn’t appear to her, as Wyndham?”
“Aye.”
“She must be devastated.”
Wyn’s heart pinched at the suggestion. “Auch, well, she might have been had I not been there to distract her. And I reckon she’ll soon fancy me just as much as her ghostie. I’ll find a way to make up for the loss.”
Ivy leaned away from him a bit and rolled her eyes. “Mr. McLeish, you are an idiot.”
He blinked while he replayed her words in his head. Aye, she’d definitely called him an eejit. And aye, he’d been called that and worse many times—that very day, even--but never by a woman.
“Sorry?”
She snorted. “You will be sorry if you end up losing this Irishwoman after she’s already in love with you.”
“Ye believe I’m wrong-headed.”
Ivy nodded. “Couldn’t have phrased it better myself.”
His confidence dissolved in a heartbeat and he began to question his plan for making Bronagh’s heart grow fonder by leaving her all alone!
“Lady Muir, have pity. I fear I have muddled it. Perhaps ye could advise me?”
Ivy grinned like a cat who had just convinced a bird to climb into its mouth. But if it was a cat he wished to charm…
“Two things,” she said, adding water to her tea. “First, you need to remember who you are.”
“And who is that?”
“You’re the man she loves. Ghost or muse, it doesn’t matter. You’re the man she fell for. Besides, spirit is everything. If she knew you then, she knows you now. The only difference is a little flesh and bones which she can now wrap her arms around.”
He sucked in a breath and nodded. It was a simple step he could follow.
“Second, you’re trying to get her to fall in love with some guy named Mac whom she’s only met once. Forget about Mac. Let her forget about Mac.”
He prayed it wouldn’t mean staying away for a month or more. He already knew that would be impossible.
“I see,” he said. “Ye think I should admit who I am, what I am. But what ye may not understand is that my lass is always fashin’, worried she’s mental. How can I tell her I am a newly reanimated dead man? Wouldn’t it be kinder to let her fall in love with Mac, a man with no implausible past?”
Ivy shook her head, picked up his hand in both of hers, and gave him a pitying smile. “It may surprise you to know that Wickham felt the same about me. He tried for years to keep things secret—things that most folks would never believe, even if they’d seen it with their own eyes. His, uh, implausible talents, we’ll call them, didn’t change who he was. They didn’t define him in my eyes. And when we finally talked it out, recently in fact, life became so much easier.
“Maybe you’re selling Bronagh short. It might take her a little while to come to terms with it, but maybe you could let her know that when she’s ready, you’re going to be there for her. I bet it doesn’t take her a week to wrap her head around it. Remember, women are a lot tougher than men.”
He scoffed. “But yer husband said I should tread lightly where women were concerned, until he could provide the lads and I with something called sensitivity training.”
Ivy chuckled. “Did he now?”
“Aye, when he delivered me back to the moor to meet Bronagh face to face for the first time.”
She shook her head. “You misunderstood. Treading lightly would have been for your safety, not hers.” Then she laughed unashamedly until tears sprang from her eyes.
Wyn waited for her to settle a bit before pressing her. “What, pray, would ye suggest I do now?”
She closed one eye and looked him over, then nodded. “I’d get back to your Irishwoman as soon as you can and confess everything. And don’t forget to tell her how you feel.” She stood and patted him on the shoulder before heading for the stairs.
With renewed hope in his heart, Wyn took his folded tartan from the towering pile on the davenport and strode to the door. But Ivy’s voice stopped him.
“Wyndham?”
“Aye?”
Peeking over the railing, she gave him a sly smile. “Definitely wear the kilt.”
Chapter Sixteen
Late Friday afternoon, Wyn was dressed in his blue and green kilt once more, with his freshly lau
ndered long shirt and his fine-fitting Jacobite jacket of navy blue. His buttons and trimmings shone with a half day’s elbow grease, along with the hilts of both his sword and the skean duh tucked into his thick sock. He stepped cautiously from platform to platform, making his way from the barn to the farmhouse, determined to stay above the snow and mud. When he reached the house, though, the door was locked.
“They’ve gone oot,” shouted Alan McHenish, one of the cooks who stood at the corner of the house.
"Oot? Do ye ken when they'll be back?"
"Monday, I believe they said."
"That's three days!"
McHenish shrugged and strolled toward the steps so he needn’t beller. "Aye. Not nearly long enough, I'd say, considering." The man waited at the bottom of the steps, watching, frowning. "Ye cannae mean to stand there for the three days, surely."
He was right. No matter how desperately Wyn wanted Wickham to be home and available to play chauffeur, him standing on the welcome mat would help nothing. So he stepped away and met the cook at the bottom of the steps. "Why do ye say three days is not enough?"
"Mrs. Muir needed a holiday from the likes of us, I reckon. Playin' mother to three wee laddies and thirty-two grown men was bound to take a toll. So Wickham took her off to London. Farmed off the bairns." He sniffed, then spit in the snow. "I told her they'd be safe here, with us looking out, but she laughed. Her eyes went a bit funny as I recall. Wickham apologized for any offense. Said she was that weary."
Wyn hoped he hadn’t been the match in the powder barrel, but didn’t say so aloud. Nor did he point out that she seemed just fine the night before. "I don't suppose anyone has learned how to drive yet?"
"Naw. But the priest will come tomorrow afternoon to lure us to evening Mass. Perhaps he can drive ye where ye need to go. Of course, there's always the horses..."
A churlish blast of wind blew a swirl of snow beneath Wyn’s kilt and reminded him what it was like to be out and about in a storm with nothing to warm his bollocks. And he weighed the chances of freezing to death against his need to see Bronagh again. The scales were more even than they should have been, but he forced himself to be reasonable.
