Patrick

by Cathy MacRae

  Laila nodded and he helped her into the boat, his fingers loathe to relinquish hers. Hers twined possessively with his.

  I can do no more than leave her with as much of her heart and pride intact as possible. Patrick gently broke their connection and grasped the oars. The smooth wooden shaft did not fit his hands as well as did Laila’s slender fingers.

  He remembered the memento he’d taken from the dragon’s lair. “Here,” he said, offering Laila the pendant. “I hope this reminds ye of Ormarr.” He scooped the remaining gold coins from his pocket. “And ye will need these.”

  Laila held the crystal heart against the sunset. Amber, gold and amethyst light burst from its center. “’Tis beautiful, Patrick,” she whispered, voice husky. “I will always treasure it.” She accepted the coins absently, her eyes on the pendant. “’Twill remind me of Ormarr—and ye.”

  The oars creaked in their worn oarlocks, adding a querulous note to their impending good-byes. His gaze sought and held Laila’s, seeking to memorize her features, the only memory he wished to carry with him into eternity.

  It took him several moments to realize they were not alone in the boat.

  Soni’s black cape blended with the deepening shadows, her hands buried deep in the heavy folds. She peered out over the water, but, as though sensing Patrick’s gaze, angled her head to smile at him. Her face glowed burnished gold in the sunset.

  Patrick’s heart plummeted to his feet.

  “I see ye have found yer bravery, Patrick,” Soni said, a merry twinkle in her eyes.

  “I suppose ye are here to take me back,” Patrick muttered, ignoring Soni’s statement.

  “Och, dinnae be so glum. Ye have wished for centuries to be a braw man. And in the space of little more than a day, ye have bested a dragon and a clan bent on destroying the beast.” She tilted her chin to Laila in a thoughtful manner. “And ye have saved a witch.”

  “She isnae a witch!” Patrick’s response was instant. Protective. Challenging.

  Soni’s smile returned. “Of course she isnae. Though I will meet her descendant many years from now who is a witch.”

  She shrugged. “Though that is merely an interesting note to this conversation.”

  “Ye must be Soni. Patrick has spoken of ye.” Laila’s voice held a note of challenge.

  Soni merely smiled. “Aye. And I know ye, and are verra pleased to meet ye.” She looked around. “I’d hoped to meet Ormarr as well.”

  Patrick couldn’t help feeling smug. “Ye have never seen a dragon before?”

  “Och! Surely ye dinnae think me that old, do ye, Patrick? Nae. I havenae met a dragon, though I would like to.”

  A large wave lifted the small boat, rocking it to one side. Patrick peered at the ocean, fearful of a sudden storm that could swamp their craft or send them over the side. But no tempest-bearing wind freshened, no white-topped crests rushed toward them.

  “’Tis Ormarr!” Laila exclaimed, rocking the boat from side to side as she half-rose to her feet.

  Soni’s hand shot out, pulling Laila back to her seat. “Dinnae toss us into the drink, lass,” she chided. “Patrick will see us ashore in a moment.”

  Patrick chanced a look over his shoulder. Ormarr perched at the edge of the water, one wingtip trailing in the inky water. With a negligent flip of his pinion, he sent them another playful surge. Patrick rolled with the wave, settling the boat firmly. Soni and Laila laughed gleefully.

  He beached the craft and leapt over the side to pull it onto the shore. Laila and Soni piled out unassisted, eager to greet Ormarr. The great dragon unfurled his wings obligingly beneath their admiration, and even snorted a small—by dragon standards—stream of smoke and flame.

  Soni was suitably impressed.

  Patrick approached the happy group, a sense of being the outsider creeping over him. Ormarr caught sight of him and drew back, settling onto the pebbled ground.

  He knows I almost led them to his lair. Because of me, they know of the gold. Shame and guilt washed over him. He ducked his head.

  Ormarr stretched his neck upward, the setting sun glinting off his glistening scales. His wings spread wide, an incredible expanse of delicate hide stretched between long, tapering fingers. A groan escaped him as his features blurred, shrank, skin replacing scales, tail dissolving on a mist, wings drawing inward until they vanished.

  “I wished to speak to Patrick,” he rasped, answering the unspoken questions.

  Eyes wide with surprise, Patrick stepped closer as Ormarr beckoned to him.

  “I should have known the sort of man ye are,” he said. “I sent Laila with ye, knowing ye would love her, care for her.” He captured Patrick’s gaze. “I dinnae trust ye to give yer life for her.”

  Patrick ducked his head, stung. “I am not brave. But I would defend her to my last breath.”

  “I know that now. And I apologize for doubting ye. I saw ye at the bonfire the night Harald and his ilk captured Laila. In my heart, I feared ye would consider them yer friends, defend their actions if they claimed her again—or do nothing to stop them.” Ormarr exhaled a thin rasp of smoke.

  “Even if ye only knew them a brief time, it took bravery to stand against them. Alone. I know ye turned from them in the cave. Ye couldnae bring yerself to do their bidding—neither for gold nor the unlikely promise Harald would deliver Laila to ye unharmed.”

  Bleakness filled Patrick’s heart. “Ye have stated my case exactly,” he whispered. “I dinnae know which was the lesser of the evils presented to me.”

  Soni smiled, her eyes alight. “And yet ye listened to yer heart. Once, ye sought yer courage in what others thought of ye. Ye bonded with them, made their cause yer own. Ye fought and died for them, betrayed for seeking yer courage in them when they are only responsible for their own. Today, ye discovered ye are stronger than ye ever imagined.” She sighed happily. “How does that make ye feel, Patrick?”

  Patrick’s heart skipped a beat. Determination flooded him, only to be dashed upon the realization he was about to fail Ormarr once again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Patrick drew on the new-found well of courage inside him. “I cannae be the man ye seek, Ormarr.” Realization dawned in Laila’s eyes. And sadness? Soni appeared thoughtful.

  “Ye are exactly the man I wish to see share my daughter’s life,” Ormarr rumbled. “I cannae see to her future. ’Tis clear she trusts ye. Ye are a good man, Patrick.”

  “I am a ghost, Ormarr,” Patrick countered bitterly. “My life isnae my own.”

  Ormarr’s head swiveled toward Soni. “Is this true, my young witch?”

  “A ghost, a witch and a dragon sat on a beach near Broch…” She grinned. “Sorry. It would make a verra poor joke.”

  Three sets of eyebrows lifted. She sighed. “Aye. Patrick is a ghost. He fell at the bloody battle of Culloden Moor many centuries from now.” She folded her hands beneath her cloak. “And he has done his heroic deed. ’Tis time for him to move on to his fate.”

  Laila stepped forward, grasping Patrick’s hand. “Ormarr speaks true. I trust Patrick. Ye cannae have him.”

  Soni canted her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “’Tis not my power to challenge, lass. Life and death is out of my hands.”

  Patrick laughed. “Are ye saying ye havenae been playing with my life? And death?”

  “Ah! I wondered if ye had found yer true voice, Patrick. Still soft. Still kind. But firm.”

  “Stop playing games, Soni. I have done my best to get Laila away from those who seek her. ’Tis I who challenge my fate. I ask ye alter my boon.”

  He gazed at Laila. “I will barter for what time I can to see ye safe. I care naught for speaking to Teàrlach.” He clasped both her hands in his, wishing so many things. Saddened he would leave her. Hoping he could treat with Soni to give him more time. “I am sorry, mo chroí. I dinnae mean for this to happen.”

  He did not have to explain himself, for Laila nodded her understanding. “I have fallen in love with ye a
s well, Patrick. How could I have known the man of my heart would wait more than a thousand years to be born? No matter if we part this night, I will never desire another.”

  “What would ye have me do?” Soni’s muted voice scarcely reached their ears, but Ormarr’s grunted challenge broke through to Laila and Patrick. They followed Ormarr’s gaze to the dark figure silhouetted against the last dregs of the sun. Patrick set Laila to safety behind him, but she grabbed his waist and peered around him.

  “Who is this?” Patrick asked. But Soni continued as though he hadn’t spoken.

  “I have seldom seen two so well-matched. Their hearts are true. Willing to wait through this lifetime and into the next to be reunited.” The soft pitch of her voice changed. “But ye know the bloodline comes through her. Grand-auntie Layla’s tales of a dragon are true.”

  A low rumble of sound came from the heavily cloaked figure, to which Soni did not reply. Tension filled the air, straining, palpable. Patrick did not dare speak. And then, with a clap of thunder and a flash of green light, the tall figure disappeared. Soni sighed and turned back to the group on the beach.

  “Uncle Windham always enjoys a bit of the dramatic.”

  To Patrick’s surprise, she appeared neither frightened nor intimidated by her encounter with the forbidding stranger—two sensations that were only now bleeding from his system as his heart rate returned to normal.

  “How much time do ye wish, Patrick? Speak truth. I must have something with which to bargain.”

  Patrick tucked Laila against his side. “I wish the rest of my natural life.” He gently kissed Laila’s brow. “And all of eternity.”

  Soni clapped her hands together happily, then raised them above her head, spread to reach to the heavens. The sleeves of her cloak fell back, revealing her slender, pale arms, the color of moonlight, small dusky shadows marring her skin. Stars twinkled above on a deep amethyst sky, reflected in the waxing moon. A streak of golden fire lined the horizon as the sun abandoned the world to the night.

  “Then join with Laila, Patrick Lindsey of Perth. Love her. Safeguard her heart. For yer choice is made the more precious with the knowledge of what could have been.”

  She dropped her hands and stared at Laila and Patrick’s startled expressions.

  “I have a love of the dramatic, too,” she confessed. “And I wish to know more of my ancestress and the marvelous tale of how she and her brave shoemaker husband once tamed a fire-breathing dragon.”

  The End

  A Note from the Author

  I don’t often use paranormal elements in my stories, the 79 ghosts and Soni notwithstanding, but what could be more awe-inspiring to a gentle soul who wishes desperately for others to see him as brave, than to be known as The Dragon-slayer?

  Since there are—to my knowledge—few dragons in contemporary stories, I reached back quite far in time to give Patrick his opportunity to discover that his courage is decided by who he is, not what he does.

  Thank you for taking this trip into the past with me!

  If you’ve enjoyed this book in The Ghosts of Culloden series, your review would be much appreciated.

  The 79 have a website: http://ghostsofcullodenmoor.weebly.com/ and a face book page: https://www.facebook.com/GhostsofCullodenMoor/ Come visit with us!

  I’d also like to give a huge thank you to my awesome critique group. As always, I couldn’t have written this without you. My deepest gratitude to Derek Dodson, Dawn Marie Hamilton, and Cate Parke for your editing skills and encouragement. To LL Muir for asking me to be part of The Ghosts of Culloden Moor. And to Kelli Ann who delivers beautiful covers even at the last minute.

  MORE BOOKS by Cathy MacRae

  The Highlander’s Bride Series:

  The Highlander’s Accidental Bride (book 1)

  The Highlander’s Reluctant Bride (book 2)

  The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (book 3)

  The Highlander’s Outlaw Bride (book 4)

  The Highlander’s French Bride (book 5)

  With DD MacRae:

  Highland Escape

  In The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series:

  Adam (book 11)

  Malcolm (book 16)

  MacLeod (book 21)

  Patrick (book 26)

  About the Author

  Cathy MacRae lives on the sunny side of the Arbuckle Mountains where she and her husband read, write, and tend the garden—with the help of the dogs, of course.

  You can visit with her on facebook, or read her blogs and learn about her books at www.cathymacraeauthor.com. Drop her a line—she loves to hear from readers!

  An Excerpt from Macleod

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sight of the sea took my breath away. I closed my eyes and drank in the tang of salt in the air, the muffled crash of the waves against the shore bringing memories of my youth flooding back. Cool fingers of air caressed my cheeks and ruffled my shoulder-length hair. My eyes opened, still in awe of the view, sighting the familiar Cuillin Mountains across the sound on the Isle of Skye, their peaks dark against the late afternoon sun. ’Twas a sight I’d seen every day of my sixteen years as a child on the island, and not one a mere three hundred years of ghostly existence could erase from my memory. I was on the Isle of Raasay. I was home.

  Movement in the water caught my attention and I smiled at the play of a small whale as it breached, the sparkling water rolling like diamonds off its dark, wet hide. Gulls screeched overhead, drifting drunkenly on the wind. The scene was heartwarmingly familiar, and yet startlingly different. A pier led to the water where a large boat docked. Its brilliant white sides and glassed-in upper deck were unlike anything I’d seen before.

  A number of people disembarked and headed my direction. They chatted amongst themselves, happy sounds as they strolled nearer. Their clothing and conversations alerted me to the fact I was in recent times. The bright, slick material of their coats and my inability to discern male from female at a distance brought to mind the tourists I’d seen lately at the Culloden Visitors’ Centre. Clad in breeches and bundled shapeless against the cold, it took me a moment to discover the group was made up of two women and three men, and one I was fair sure ’twas a lad from the way he plodded a wee bit behind the rest of the group. He shifted a sack suspended on a strap across his drooped shoulders, the slippery whisper of material reaching my ears in the clear air. One woman in the group slowed her step and, angling her body toward the lad, motioned with a flick of her wrist for him to catch up.

  “Will you try for Dun Caan, this time?” One of the men asked, canting his head to the man next to him. “I’d like to get some shots of Skye’s skyline from the summit. I need ‘em for an article in the emag. Hiking the Highlands in Winter, or some such.” His words dinnae fall on my ears the same as the speech from my day and time, but I had adjusted to the changing sounds over the years.

  The other man shrugged. “Not a bad hike to the top, but the weather won’t stand for it this time of year, I’m afraid.”

  The first man looked around him and I caught my breath. But he dinnae notice me. “It’s cold, but not too bad, and it looks like the snow’ll hold off a bit longer. Why don’t we see how it looks in the morning?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’m not dressed for sleet if the storm moves in.”

  His comment made me question my own clothing. A quick glance downward told me I still wore the coat and breeches I’d stolen as I headed off to war two hundred and seventy years ago. I dinnae miss my kirtle, but the breeches were filthy from sitting too long on my backside, and the coat was threadbare and faded. Oddly enough, though the wintry air made my cheeks tingle, I wasnae cold.

  I brushed as much of the dirt and dust from my breeches as I could and straightened my coat across my shoulders, trying not to drag my fingers through my ill-kempt locks. Squaring my shoulders, I waited for the group to reach me with their curious looks and silly questions asked of the tour guides I’d seen at the Culloden Visitors’ Centre who dressed in the attire
of my day.

  Without sparing me a glance, the group strolled right past, laughing at murmured words I couldnae hear. Had I been vain, I’d have worried they made jest of my raggedness.

  I was a bit disgruntled by their lack of friendliness, however. Stepping forward, I planted my feet fully on the path, hands fisted on my hips as I glared at their backs. The lad hesitated, casting a glance over his shoulder. He ignored the woman’s repeated urge for him to keep up, staring at me with puzzlement in his narrowed eyes. The woman gave him a sharp look, then glanced at me and past.

  “Stop dallying, Alex. What on earth are you staring at?” With a hand to the lad’s shoulder, she captured his attention and they rejoined their companions.

  Och! That was a fine welcome! For a moment I considered striking off on my own, but I remembered that no matter what I did or dinnae do, my time here was limited, and my time beyond that uncertain.

  I shrugged and followed the tourists up the path to Raasay House, the home the MacLeod chief had built to replace the old tower castle ten years before I was born. I remembered the pretty, three-storey building with its vegetable garden planted over the old castle site. I’d played there with my brothers and sisters whilst my ma cooked meals for the chief and his family. We’d been no poorer nor richer than the others on the island, but we likely ate better than most.

  I glanced up, eagerly looking to the house as it nestled in a pleasant low spot, framed by trees and hills. Raasay House faced me, but it was a far cry from the building I remembered.

  A large entry crouched beneath pinnacled gables and wings flowed seemingly unending to either side. The house I once knew was now an impressive manor, and I felt a swell of pride of the chief’s obvious affluence. But a chill of doubt crept over me as I realized the building which once faced north, now faced south. The nip of smoke from one of the many chimneys fueled my memory of the year after Culloden when many homes on the isle had been burned, often with their inhabitants inside. Had Raasay House suffered the same fate?