Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  She chattered like she was nervous, but she couldn’t possibly be as nervous as he.

  “What was your uncle’s name?”

  “Aye, this is considered the Rankine tartan. Alistair Rankine was my uncle, though I would wager there were many Alistairs born to the family through the centuries.” His reasoning was a bit stronger than his voice. He half expected the note to read, This painting is of the man standing beside you. He died in 1746 at the age of twenty-eight. He’s been lying to you from the moment he opened his mouth.

  “Raibert Fisher Rankine,” she read aloud. “1727. Aged nine summers. Oh my gosh. Nearly 300 years old. You were probably named after this boy, in a roundabout way.

  “Most probably.”

  “I can’t read this. M. Boletti? Roletti?”

  “Monsieur Boletti.”

  She consulted the signature again. “Not very legible. Was he famous?”

  “I wouldnae ken. Though I remember my uncle speaking the name.”

  She stared at the painting long enough to make him uncomfortable, and though he tried not to show it, he couldn’t help shifting his weight back and forth.

  She finally looked up at his face, pleased. “Great family resemblance. The Rankines must have strong genes.”

  He nodded at the mantel. “We should put it back. I am surprised the place was not locked up better. With all this expensive restoration, they should have alarms everywhere. Even now, the gendarmes might be on their way, and we’ll have no fair-natured Marchant to set us free.”

  She waved the paper. “Here. I need to put this back. Oh, wait! There’s another page.”

  She slid a second sheet of thin parchment from behind the first. He reached for it, but she turned her back and read aloud. “It’s in English. Pretty writing. This is a portrait of my nephew, Raibert Fisher Rankine, just days before he was to return to Scotland. His brief two-year stay with me will forever be the high point of my life.” Each word came slower. “No matter what occurred in this house, he was sheltered from it. Judge him not.” Her voice softened. “Signed, Alistair Fisher Rankine.”

  Her hands shook as she lowered them. It took her a moment to put the papers back together and slip them into the pocket. Then she stepped aside to allow him to return the frame to the mantelpiece.

  “Strange,” he said lightly, “that the lad’s story so closely resembled my own. If it would have said he went home to be a fisherman, it would be right uncanny.”

  She said nothing while she stared into the black hole of the fireplace, her hands stuffed into the front pockets of her navy coat.

  “Seriously, lass, I think we should be going. I’m certain there are interesting things on every floor of this ancient place. Shocking, even, since it was once a bawdy house for the upper classes. But we should go before someone calls the police. Or worse yet, they lock that gate.”

  The sky had darkened when they stepped outside the house. Minutes passed before Martine realized it was raining. She hadn’t noticed how they’d gotten to the sidewalk, but behind her, Fisher was messing with the chain and muttering.

  “Ye’ve caused enough trouble, I think.”

  “Who are you talking to?” She’d asked it before realizing she didn’t want to know.

  “Forgive me. I was speaking to this wee lock. I’ll not leave it open, as we found it. That is all.”

  She felt suddenly very tired, but it had nothing to do with how much walking they’d done. Admitting it, though, might ruin everything. If he sent her back to her hotel, there was no guessing if she’d ever see him again, and she knew in her bones that she didn’t want that. Still, she really needed to sit down.

  Martine blinked up at the small Hotel Maria. Fisher gripped her arm firmly, letting her know he was still with her, and she could have cried, she was so relieved.

  “How did we get here?”

  “Aunt Penny paid for a taxi,” he said. His voice was low and gravely. Nice and close to her ear. It made her feel warm all over in spite of the cold air against her skin. The cold was replaced by warmth again, as soon as they stepped inside and the heavy glass door closed.

  The creepy manager stood behind the desk looking down his nose at her, but he couldn’t keep it up. The closer they got, the further back he had to tip his head, to look up at Fisher. She really liked that.

  She cleared her throat and asked for her key. He pretended he didn’t know the number.

  “Thirty-six,” she said, then summoned all her energy to hike the staircase. After they’d made the turn, she whispered to Fisher. “Did I fall asleep in the taxi or something?”

  “Nay, lass. Ye’re in shock. But no worries. I’ll tend after ye.”

  “You won’t leave!”

  “Nay. I’ll not leave ye. I’m here until the morrow. Ye’ll be in fine shape by then.”

  She looked down at her hand gripping the metal rail, reached down, then pinched it hard. It hurt, and she gasped.

  “Why ever did ye do that?”

  She shook her head. “It hurt.”

  “I imagine it did.” He was obviously trying not to laugh at her.

  “I just thought, if I pinched myself, I could wake up, so I could…keep you here.”

  He put his arm around her back, his hand on her shoulder, then pulled her into his side. “Nay, Martine. Ye’re not asleep. Neither are ye dreaming. And I swear to ye, I’ll not leave ye.”

  They reached the door and he put the key in the lock. The manager hadn’t liked it when she’d handed it off Fisher, and she couldn’t help smiling, remembering his face.

  “Why do ye smile like the mousy who got the cheese?”

  She shrugged. “I think I like having you around, that’s all.”

  He grinned harder. “That’s a fine thing to hear.” The door swung open and he stepped back to let her enter first.

  “Even though you can see dead people.”

  “Even so.” He closed the door and locked it. Ten minutes later, when she came out of the bathroom, in her sweats and T-shirt, he was waiting to tuck her into bed. She was still feeling a little weak, so she did as she was told. He made her feel like a child when he pulled the blankets up to her chin.

  “Are you immortal? The Highlander that can’t die unless someone cuts your head off?”

  He laughed. “Nay, thank God for that. I’m not so talented with a sword that I could defend against any comers.”

  “A poor swordsman from 1727? How did you survive this long?”

  He glanced around, then got off the bed and sat on a chair instead. He pulled a pillow from behind him and dropped it in his lap. “Truth is, love, I didn’t survive.”

  She sat up straight. “You died?”

  He frowned and came back to push her back onto the pillow and tugged the covers up again.

  “You’re a zombie or something? What that cop said about your finger healing instantly, it wasn’t a trick, was it?”

  “Whoa, now. One question at a time. I am not dead. I am no zombie. My finger did heal, lass, and for the moment, I suppose I am immortal. But all that will end tomorrow. A witch—a wee lass who is very dear to me—brought me back to life. She gave me two days of mortality and bade me to prove myself. She’ll collect me on the morrow.”

  “Collect you? And then what?”

  “Then I’ll be sent on to the Judgment Seat, I presume. I only ken that I will not be going back to the battlefield. My haunting days are over.”

  “Sent on. You mean you’ll be dead again.”

  “Aye. I was given but two days. I have until tomorrow to make my mark on the world.”

  She shook her head against the pillow but didn’t dare sit up again. “What if I don’t want you to go?”

  He shook his head, then smoothed the top of the sheet with his hands. “That is also a very fine thing to hear. But never mind for the now. Close yer eyes and rest for a mite. Ye’ve had a difficult day. And I shall be here when ye wake. I vow it.”

  She decided a short nap might just be a
good idea and closed her eyes. “An hour will probably do me. But we’re going to have a good long talk when I wake up.”

  “And so we shall.”

  He pressed his lips against her forehead for a couple of seconds, then moved away from her. Through her eyelashes, she peeked to make sure he hadn’t gone far, then slammed them shut again when he frowned. When she peeked a second time, he was looking through a magazine, smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fisher waited until Martine slept soundly before he investigated the loo. After he’d enjoyed all the convenience of the room, he stared at himself in the mirror and had a silent conversation.

  She cannae afford a headstone for her sister, let alone a marker for me. There is no point asking. But then again, does it matter? If I had to choose between a marker on Culloden or the time I’ve spent with Martine May Platte, I would choose the latter, no question.

  Then there was the matter of his portrait. If the Paris house was truly to be a museum of sorts, as the poster declared, his portrait would remain. It would be cared for and maintained as well as the house had been. There was a marker for him! There was proof that Raibert Fisher Rankine had lived upon this earth.

  And not only that! A note from Uncle Alistair himself declared him to have been untainted by his time there. It was a pity he’d worried so much in his later years, over the things he’d seen, suspected, and heard from the upper floors. He’d thought himself so less worthy than other Highland lads.

  A vision of the battlefield replaced his reflection for a moment. In it, he saw himself pacing back and forth over his deathbed. Even before others attempted to spread or bury ashes there, he’d been guarding it. But why?

  Perhaps he’d been guarding that plot of earth from his own unworthiness! Aye! If he never truly laid down to rest, perhaps that holy ground couldn’t have been tainted by himself.

  He inhaled deeply, and as he did so, the air seemed purer, somehow, as if the progress of his thoughts had cleaned his mind and heart just as surely as the shower had cleaned his body.

  I am a good man. I am! And my bones, lying beneath the soil of Culloden Moor are worthy of their resting place.

  If he didn’t believe it before, he believed it now.

  Soncerae’s words repeated once again. Only this time, they rung truer and sweeter than the lassie would ever know. She’d prodded him to prove he was still a good man, but what he’d truly needed was to convince himself he’d been a good man from the start.

  Now he believed.

  He’d been foolish to consider anyone tainted because of a pair of years in his childhood over which he had no control. And his circumstances hadn’t been all bad, either. Even Uncle Alistair looked back on their time together with fondness. Why should he not do the same?

  Too exultant to sleep, and yet depleted from his hot shower, he donned his long shirt and returned to the bed. With plenty of empty space on one side and the lass breathing deeply and unaware on the other, he stretched himself out and closed his eyes, then panicked.

  For the past two hundred and sixty-nine years, when he’d allowed his mind to relax, he returned to his deathbed for long stretches of time. Well, he certainly didn’t wish to do so now. He’d promised he would be there when Martine awoke!

  Copying what he’d seen the lass do on the staircase, he reached over and pinched his arm, hard, to ensure he was neither sleeping nor spirit. A living man wouldn’t simply disappear because he slumbered. Besides, he’d managed to sleep a long while in the park the night before. So he closed his eyes and trusted, in both God and Soncerae, that he’d be allowed to keep his promise.

  When Fisher woke in a cold room in the dead of night, he wasn’t the one who was missing. Martine was.

  He found her in her coat and pajamas, seated before the large window that overlooked the front of the hotel. With the window ajar, he heard a low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glasses.

  He laid a hand on her shoulder, then kissed the top of her head. She started, then smiled. “Hi there.”

  “Hi there.”

  “I guess that was some nap, huh?”

  “Aye. For me as well.”

  “We must have needed it.” She closed the window. “Sorry if I froze you out.”

  “Not at all.” But he did pull a blanket from the bed before dragging a chair next to hers and making his own cocoon. “How do ye feel?”

  “Curious, mostly.”

  “Auch, that’s a fair sign.”

  She nodded. The pinch between her brows proved she was back to herself. He preferred the sober Martine over the nervous one. He hadn’t lost her. Martine May Platte was still in there, somewhere, holding on.

  Brave lass.

  If he’d done nothing else right during his crusade for a noble deed, he had chosen the right woman to…love.

  “When I woke up, I worried it had all been a dream, and I hadn’t seen the cathedral yet. Then I heard you snore. It’s all real?”

  “Aye.”

  “Julia was here? She did hear me?”

  “Aye. She was with ye for nearly a full day, but I suspect that was the case ‘ere ye ever arrived in Paris.”

  “I talked to her enough in the past two months, she probably had to come just to shut me up.”

  He chuckled. “Could be. But I don’t think it will work again, if ye try to bring her back. I believe she is well and truly gone. But ye’re not alone yet, love.”

  She linked her fingers with his, then pulled his hand up to her lips and kissed the back of his hand. The pure affection of the gesture tempted him to weep. Aye, to be remembered by Martine would be enough. Their portrait might be of mere paper, and one day, she too would move on to the next world, but it mattered not at all. Temporary or not, his mark was made.

  She smiled against his knuckles. “Maybe I should get the number of your witch, in case I need her later.”

  “I believe Soncerae is especially connected to myself and my comrades. Seventy-nine of us rose up after the battle, refusing to leave our deathbeds. We’re enough to keep her busy. I dinnae believe she freelances.”

  “Seventy-nine? Whoa.”

  “But there is a particular kinship involved. It began when she was just a babe. We felt it long before she could walk or talk. I dinnae ken if she has powers that go beyond what she does on the moor. I have no phone number to give, but perhaps ye’ll meet her, if ye’re still...speaking to me in the morning.”

  “She’s coming to get you?”

  “I cannot say that she will come here. Perhaps she will but call me back to her side. If I should be gone, of a sudden, ye’ll ken what happened. Do not feel so badly if we have no chance to say farewells, aye? I ken it was difficult when Julia was gone so suddenly.” He forced a smile. “This time, ye’ll be prepared.”

  “Prepared. Right.” She sucked in a fast, deep breath. “I don’t think you can prepare. Even if you have warning, if someone is really sick, or whatever, how can you not...be devastated?” She shook her head. “You’re perfectly healthy. There’s no reason—”

  “I know not the particulars, nor do I ken what price Soni had to pay for these two days, but she will pay it 79 times over. I could not ask for another day, let alone a lifetime. I only wish...”

  “What?”

  “I only wish I might have done something better with the years I wasted on the moor. Perhaps I could have done some good, somewhere.”

  Yet again, Soni’s memory came back to him, telling him he was a good man. How could she have known that he’d been trying to prove that very thing every day since he’d left Paris? To prove he wasn’t the same base sort of man that stumbled about his uncle’s house.

  “For a young lass, Soni is verra wise.”

  “Young, huh? Not old and ugly?” Martine’s expression, even in the darkness, could not hide a touch of jealousy.

  “Aye. Young. Sixteen. And wise, as I said…for she kenned to bring me to Paris and put me into the path of a certain American lass
with a white cap.”

  Martine bit her lips together, but it could not stop her smile. He was charmed to his toes, pleased she was pleased, and he suddenly needed her in his arms.

  “It is far too early. Come back to the bed and we’ll await the dawn together. We’ll have the long morning at least, for farewells.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The morning sky was pale blue, the sun bright enough to make the clouds pack up and move out in disgust. Martine knew just how they felt. There was no joy in knowing the day would end grimly.

  She tried not to slam things around the bathroom while she was getting ready, but it wasn’t easy. Then she felt like crap when she opened the door and found Fisher dressed to the nines in his kilt, jacket folded nicely over his arm, and a very fake smile on his face just for her.

  He was the one who had to die today. She had no right to ruin his last hours with her bad mood. Sure, she was going to be alone again, but at least she’d still be breathing. Fisher and Julia weren’t that lucky.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have taken so long.”

  “No worries. Shall we go to breakfast?” He opened the door and stepped aside, almost like he didn’t want to touch her.

  They’d held each other for hours, used each other as a pillow, and wiped each other’s tears. Then, as soon as the sun was up, they were strangers again. The day she’d prayed would last forever was going to be a bittersweet torture.

  They passed at least a dozen restaurants before they found something that appealed to them, and as they stepped inside, she realized why. The place was dark and sleepy, like it hadn’t gone to bed yet. The waiter looked the same. He didn’t bother with small talk or try to cheer them up. He just asked how they wanted their coffee and walked away.

  “I like him,” she said.

  Fisher stood behind her chair and tucked it under her as she sat down. Then he frowned down at her. “Ye’re right-handed, then?”

  She couldn’t guess why he’d ask. “Yeah.”