Ghosts of Culloden Moor 05 - Gareth

by L. L. Muir

  Gareth put his entire will behind his destination—Culloden Moor—and rushed into Aiden’s place.

  Soni looked panicked. “I cannae stop it!”

  Gareth’s mouth curved into a grim smile. “Then dinnae try. Remember, but three days. My first is taken with a task.”

  “I dinnae know if I can!”

  “Three days, lass!”

  If he had his way, there’d be naught left for the rest of them. They’d have to move on with the knowledge he’d dispatched The Young Pretender to perdition and the man roasted in torment, agony, and pain.

  Unless it truly was a trick.

  He was wrenched, guts torn asunder as dizziness and pain beset him.

  Blood, flesh, breath—all filled with life once more.

  He stood facing the others, faded now, their shock no less than his own.

  ’Twas not a trick!

  Satisfaction roared through him.

  The witch smiled, briefly, a tugging of lips quickly suppressed.

  Whole and hearty, he lurched forward, revenge at hand!

  “Gareth, wait!”

  He refused to listen. The last he’d been alive, obeying had left him dead and rotting on a field before being tossed into a mass grave atop his brothers.

  The prince would pay now. Gareth was reborn to make him.

  His strides lengthened as his pain lessened. Gareth had no kin. No blood. No chance of children or grandchildren. None of them had. Why should the prince? He might not know how to get to the man—yet—but knew very well how to get at his kin.

  He was drawn toward the road where the Stuart lass disappeared. Mayhap she’d others with her. All the more to kill.

  The Young Pretender had run away, tail tucked firmly between his legs, and gone on to live to father a child who’d given him grandchildren.

  The man should’ve died with them on the field that day. Should’ve been there to shout orders before the cannon and grapeshot plowed through them as they’d waited as trained.

  Soni still called after him. “Ye’re bullheaded, that ye are! ’Tis yer biggest flaw!”

  He barely heard her.

  “Wait! ’Tis not how it was meant to be. Come back!”

  He’d not listen anymore. He ran now, for all he was worth, his destination clear as only one fact disgruntled him.

  Why had the witch smiled?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lissa pulled on her pajama pants and tee shirt. It had been a long day, and as thrilled as she was to be in Scotland, she really needed to get some rest. Though how she’d be able to sleep was a mystery to her. She’d wanted to come here for so long, it felt like a dream come true.

  The fact it was paid for by someone else made it even better.

  Surprisingly, it actually felt like a homecoming. Maybe her dad was right and they really were related to Bonnie Prince Charlie. One of these days, she might have to spend the money to hire a genealogist to find out. Her dad would be thrilled if they actually received some sort of documentation. No doubt he’d frame the papers and show the proof to any unsuspecting folks who might happen by—friends and salesmen alike.

  She thought again about the weird ghostly apparition that attacked earlier. Had she really seen it? Or had her overactive imagination been at work? In retrospect, it seemed silly. Like a dream or something she’d made up. Perhaps a good imagination was simply an occupational hazard in her line of work.

  Her phone rang and she picked it up to see it was her best friend Cara calling. “Hello?”

  “Are there any hot Scotsmen about? How many have you seen so far?”

  Lissa laughed. “Exactly none, point none.” Again she thought about the ghostly apparition. “Well, maybe one. But I’m not sure a ghost counts.”

  “You saw a ghost?” Cara sounded excited.

  “I’m not really sure, it was probably just a combination of jet lag, the euphoria of actually being in Scotland, and some of the haggis I ate.”

  Cara chuckled. “Liar. You did not eat haggis.”

  Lissa grinned. “Okay, not yet.”

  “Like I said, ten bucks if you do. So you imagined a hot ghost? Nice! And how is Scotland?”

  “It’s gorgeous. You can’t possibly believe it. I wish you could have come with me.”

  “Me, too. But I’ll be there when we make the movie! So excited!”

  “Yeah, I can’t wait. I’m really jazzed about this one. I can’t wait to delve into the research.”

  “Freak. I want to visit a few pubs, see Loch Ness, and find me a hot Scotsman.”

  “You know Nessie was a fake, right?”

  “Believe what you want.”

  Lissa chuckled. “As for any hot Scotsmen, I’ll scout the situation.”

  “Maybe you need an assistant. Perhaps you should tell Perry.”

  Lissa laughed, and again, the image of the apparition, otherwise and forevermore known as The Scary, Hot Scotsman, popped into her head. “Nope. I want first shot. With you around I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Whatever. You with your gorgeous honey blonde hair and blue eyes. If you’d stop looking like Scarlett Johansson I could take your claims more seriously.”

  “That guy just said I looked like her to get a date!”

  “That makes three times you’ve been mistaken for her.”

  “If I didn’t live in Hollywood no one would make comparisons.”

  “You’re not in Hollywood now. Which, of course, compels me to remind you to wear makeup on this trip. You never know. You, pouring over musty manuscripts, look up and there he is. Hot, brogue speaking Scotsman, practically falling at your feet. Wear lipstick, too, okay?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Whatever. I know you’ll forget. So, how many times has good old Perry called so far?”

  “Just once. He made me miss the short movie at the visitors center, so I’m going back again tomorrow.”

  Cara laughed. “He’s losing his touch. You know, I think he’d go for you in a big way, except he’s afraid if it didn’t work out, which it never does with him, you’d refuse to work for him anymore.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. If he tries anything, I’ll threaten to quit.”

  Cara chuckled. “That would do it.”

  Lissa yawned. “I’m going to bed. The sun just went down and I want a fresh start early in the morning.”

  “Nighty night. Keep me updated, and especially let me know if you see a hot Scotsman hanging around. Take pictures.”

  “If I see a hot Scotsman, I’m keeping him to myself.”

  “Well, I can’t fault you there, but if he has a brother, think of me! Which reminds me, did you find the Highlander romance novel I stuck in your backpack?”

  “Yes. Great cover, by the way.”

  “Yeah, the guy is yummy. But if I was there with you, I’d be living the dream instead of reading about it, so don’t feel you have to read it, hint, hint.”

  “We’ll see if you’re all talk when you come over here for the movie. Goodnight.”

  Cara was giggling. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Dream of Highlanders!”

  Shaking her head, Lissa wandered over to the second floor window to get a last glimpse of Scotland before she went to bed.

  She stilled. The ghost from the visitors center strode across the lawn.

  At least it looked like him. The outfit was the same, as was the wild and braided black hair.

  Surprise, and a little bit of fear, held her immobile.

  He staggered a bit, and seemed a lot more substantial than he had earlier. Maybe she shouldn’t be afraid of ghosts, but of zombies, instead.

  It couldn’t possibly be the same man. It was probably just some guy, headed home to his family, after an evening out binging.

  He looked up at her and their eyes met. It looked like the same man, and he appeared determined rather than drunk, but the anger was still there, coldly simmering behind dark eyes.

  She put her hand to her heart and stepped back from the wi
ndow.

  She knew it was silly, but why did she suddenly feel she was being stalked?

  ~~~

  Gareth waited, hiding from the moonlight as, one by one, everyone in the house fell to sleep.

  He was planning murder.

  His mind, his temper, and his very soul seemed to have darkened, bent on revenge. An ugly swirling mass of emotion seemed to have settled in his now beating chest.

  The back door was unlocked; he hadn’t expected otherwise. But still, it was strange to twist a doorknob. He’d seen it done before at the visitors center and on the shows the guards watched. But he’d not done the like in person.

  He ran his hand down his chest about the hundredth time. Felt his heartbeat, felt his warm flesh, bone, pumping blood. That didn’t matter now. As soon as his chore was done, he could consider such happenings.

  He moved, silent as a wraith to the kitchen, and still slightly disoriented, he lurched a bit but caught himself on the table and managed to stay quiet.

  His night vision was excellent. Had it always been? Or was it a leftover from being a ghost? He couldn’t remember. He spotted a knife on the kitchen counter, picked it up, and tested it for sharpness. He smiled. It was well honed and certainly sharp enough to get the task done.

  There would be a lot of blood.

  Perhaps he should take her outside, lure her somehow, so as to get her away from the good folk of the house. He didn’t want interference, nor should the good woman of the establishment clean the mess he planned to make.

  The girl was small enough he could place a hand over her mouth, pull her into his arms, and carry her outside.

  But she’d kick and fight, wouldn’t she? She might wake the house, and he didn’t want that.

  Perhaps he should simply squeeze the life out of her. He pictured his big hands clamped around Charles Stuart’s neck, but the picture faded away to be replaced by a young woman, such as his sister.

  His blood heated with the force of resentment. This woman shouldn’t be alive, though, should she? Had The Young Pretender died with Gareth and his brothers in the blood and mud of that far off day, this girl wouldn’t even exist, would she?

  What right did this girl have to life?

  If Charles Stuart had an ounce of honor in his soul, he’d have fought and died with them, or had the gumption to plan and lead them to another victory.

  But instead, he’d slept, miles down the road in a warm bed as they’d crept upon the enemy, only to be ordered to turn themselves around—starved and frozen and without direction for the upcoming battle.

  Gareth had a lot of time to think about it.

  A lot of time to dwell upon the mistakes made, both in leadership and location. They’d been positioned in front of a bog! And a wall blocked others from entering the battle! No call to fight had been uttered as they’d been massacred without mercy.

  And this lass had nerve, had the outright gall to come to Culloden Moor? To proudly spout of being blood kin to the blackguard?

  That she would dare!

  He silently worked his way up the stairs, testing for creaks on the boards, and searching for the best footholds to hide his presence.

  He finally made his way to her bedroom, the one he’d seen her in earlier. He eased his way into the room, still debating the wisdom of a knife, or choking the life out of the girl. Silent as the dead, eyes seeing very well in the dark, he stared down at the girl, no, the woman, in the bed.

  Moonlight lit the window, the glow enough to light her face. She was beautiful, of course. As any kin of Bonnie’s was bound to be. But she looked like a wee kitten, her dark blonde hair spread about the pillow, her full lips soft in sleep, innocent as a child.

  That innocence made him angry!

  He lifted the knife and his hand shook, as he debated plunging it into her chest or slicing her gullet.

  She was Bonnie Prince Charlie’s get! She’d die by Gareth’s hand, and when she met the prince in hades—because Gareth had absolutely no doubt that’s where the man resided—she’d be able to tell him that Gareth had personally killed her.

  He studied her face again. Yes, she was beautiful. But she didn’t resemble the prince. Not in the least. It would’ve been easier if she had.

  He lifted the knife higher as heated blood flooded his veins. Surely he’d overheard her bragging earlier so he could finally have a chance to exact revenge! He was supposed to do this!

  His arm shook. Heaving a breath, he lifted the knife higher, held it in place, then exhaled and lowered the knife to his side.

  He couldn’t do it.

  He couldn’t kill her.

  She looked as innocent as those he used to protect. She was a woman. If she’d been a man, perhaps it would’ve been easier.

  His gaze hardened. Mayhap he just needed a bit more time to gird himself to the task.

  Aye. He’d take her with him, and when she reminded him of her grandfather, he’d work up the nerve, end her life, and send her as a message to Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  By morning’s light for sure.

  ~~~

  Lissa was grabbed, mouth and hands bound, and draped over a broad shoulder before she even woke up.

  Was this a dream?

  She tried to move, but between the bindings and the hard arm trapping her to an even harder shoulder, she didn’t stand a chance.

  She tried to scream, but the fear coursing through her veins and the shoulder digging into her torso, prevented more than a squeak coming out. She was immediately jostled, her solar plexus bouncing against hard muscle and robbing her of what little breath she’d accumulated.

  The man grabbed her backpack with her wallet, laptop, and camera in it.

  Was this a robbery? If so, he’d certainly taken her most valuable possessions.

  She was quickly taken down the stairs, to the kitchen, and out the back door. Fear, lack of oxygen, and disbelief paralyzed and deprived her of movement. Then they were outside, and the man was striding away from the safety of the bed and breakfast, away from people and rescue.

  She was completely helpless, she couldn’t even ask what he wanted. Was she going to be raped? Murdered? Worse? Why was he doing this?

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she finally sucked in a breath and struggled. It did her no good and she was jostled and robbed of any breath she’d managed to suck into her lungs.

  She was crying, soft sobbing muffled by the cloth. Why? Why had she been targeted? Because she was a woman? An American? Because she hated golf?

  After about ten minutes, they arrived in a deserted field and every murder she’d ever heard of flashed through her mind. She was set on her feet then pushed to the ground. Was this it? Was it over? The massive behemoth pulled out a knife and a muffled shriek exploded out of her as she struggled backward across the hard ground.

  He swooped down and, as she screamed, he cut her bindings.

  Was he going to kill her?

  With shaking fingers, she reached up to peel back the cloth settled between her lips. “What…what do you want?” Mouth dry, she dreaded his answer, was afraid she already knew it.

  He was big, bigger than she’d imagined, and as there was a full moon tonight, she could see the ferocity in his expression.

  She backed away, vulnerability scorching her as he stood above. “What do you want?” The words exploded from her again, though she wasn’t sure she desired a response.

  “What do I want?” The man’s voice was deep, graveled with a Scottish accent, and forbidding. “I heard ye today, telling all who’d listen ye are flesh and blood to Charles Stuart.”

  “W…what?”

  “I loathe Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  She couldn’t seem to grasp his meaning. “You hate Bonnie Prince Charlie?” He took another step forward and she scooted backward, her heart pounding with fear.

  “Hate?” For every bit of ground she gained, he continued to pace forward. “Aye, ye could say such. To my verra bones, I abhor the man, hold him in disg
ust, despise him and wish him a thousand burnin’, lingerin’ deaths. I scorn him, revile him, belittle him and mock him. My contempt for the man seeps into every part of my being. Aye, lass, I do hate the man. To the blackest part of my soul.”

  She continued to back away, her fingers digging in dirt and long grass. Though it did her no good as he followed her every movement. “O…okay. But what does that have to do with me? The man’s been dead for hundreds of years.”

  “He killed me, my brothers, and my comrades as surely as if he lit the cannons, stabbed us with bayonets, and loaded the muskets himself.”

  She backed herself against a tree and sat upright. She licked her dry lips, wondering if the man had escaped a nearby institution. “But…but how? He’s been dead for hundreds of years.”

  “I’ll be havin’ my revenge now, won’t I?”

  Against her? She could make out a sword and a knife tucked into his belt. He started to pace back and forth in front of her, and she wasn’t sure what to say.

  He continued to rant, speaking ill of her father now, claiming he’d kill him and the rest of her family as well—but especially her father and brothers.

  What brothers? She was an only child.

  She glanced around, searching for a chance at escape, for someone to help, but they were in a deserted location, an uneven, grass-covered field, the moon eerily shining down on them with no help of any kind in sight.

  His rant now included the fact he was having a difficult time killing her, as she was a woman. She let out a shaky breath and thanked the Lord for that fact. “If you just let me go, I won’t tell anyone this happened. I promise.”

  At that, he stopped to look at her. “Yer word means naught to me. I’ll keep ye with me until I work up the nerve to end ye.”

  She swallowed.

  “What’s yer name, girl?”

  She wanted to lie to him, but was afraid to. What if he already knew? Was testing her, and would hurt her if she lied? “Lissa.”

  “Lissa, from the house of Stuart?”

  She nodded, relieved she’d told the truth. “Yes. Lissa Stuart.”

  “Well, ye will listen, and listen well. I’m to keep ye for now, but I’ll probably be able to kill ye on the morrow.”