Bram--#35--Ghosts of Culloden Moor

by L. L. Muir

  She turned and looked at Ivy. She trusted a woman who was smart enough not to let her hot husband drive another woman out to the middle of nowhere without a chaperone. “What do you think?”

  Ivy looked at the dress and narrowed her eyes. Then she looked at Wickham the same way. He narrowed his eyes, too, then they both laughed.

  “I think the dress is probably a riding costume. No one can expect you to wear it very long.” She nodded to her husband. “And I trust him all the time, so…”

  Sophie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This pan of burned cupcakes will just have to do.

  Wickham reached into the truck bed, pulled out the small bag from Loretta, then handed it off to his wife. Ivy pulled out the leather slippers, a hat that matched the green outfit—a cap with a train of sheer cloth that would hang down her back—and a note.

  Ivy read it, laughed, then bit her lip.

  “What does it say?”

  Ivy looked at her with round eyes. “Absolutely no underwear.”

  Sophie grabbed the note, to prove Ivy was lying.

  She wasn’t.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bram stood on the battlefield, unmoving as the rest of the dead around him. His dark hair, the flap of his kilt, his bootlaces—none of it stirred as a breeze pressed at the grasses and heather at his feet. The only other things affected were the icy-white flames of the witch’s fire, though they settled back into a calm blaze after Niall MacDonald and the others were gone, leaving Bram to believe it was their passing that affected the fire, and not the weather a’tall.

  How many will she send away this night?

  Young Soni wandered around to the rear of the conflagration, her dark robe trailing behind, its wee embellishments winking with the reflections of white flames. Her ring of emerald mist, her protection enchantment, dissipated, which meant only one thing—her vigilant uncle was nearby. Whenever the man went away again, either on foot or disappearing into the night with one of Bram’s fellow spirits, the ring would reappear. From what Soni needed protection he could not begin to guess.

  The lass looked into the flames and grinned. “Hello, Uncle.”

  “Lass,” the man said, standing just behind her right shoulder. The light of the fire brought his Delphian face from the shadows. “Have I kept ye waiting?”

  Soni laughed lightly—the softest tinkling of a windchime. “Not at all.” Her gaze never left the flames. “I was just about to call Ogilvy forward.” Those eyes flashed up to meet Bram’s and he felt a force inside him, like a gust of wind bouncing off the walls of his ribs, urging him to move.

  There was no sense resisting, but neither would he go along quietly.

  He didn’t bother walking. He simply willed himself forward, to stand before the great bonfire and face the lass and her formidable uncle across the flames. “Soncerae.” To the uncle, he offered the slightest nod, but didn’t wait for it to be returned.

  Mischief lifted one side of the lassie’s mouth. “Bram.”

  “I appreciate what ye try to do here,” he said, “but if it is a noble deed ye expect from me, there are two things I must have. And if ye provide them, I will accomplish all the fine deeds ye like.”

  She nodded. “Go on.”

  He meant no disrespect, nor did he wish to lead a revolt among the others, so he lowered his voice and hoped his fellow Highlanders were beyond hearing.

  “It was a lesson hard-learned by us all, aye? But to a man, we ken how powerless men can be without position in this world. If ye grant me power and position, anything ye ask, I will do.” He pressed on. “I realize that in modern times, a man can make his own place in the world, make his own fortune, take power for himself. But I’ve only the two days—”

  “Done.” Soni’s smile turned gentle. “It’s already been arranged, my friend. Did ye think I wouldn’t ken just what ye’d want?” She nodded sideways at her uncle. “Wickham will see ye get where ye need to go. And I will see ye again in a day or two.”

  Just like that? No quibbling? No debate? Perhaps she didn’t understand what it was he was asking.

  “I do understand,” she said, reading his mind. “Trust me, Number 12. Power and position are yours…if ye can sit a horse, that is.”

  The uncle waved a hand, summoning Bram to the other side of the fire where he turned to face him. He clasped onto Bram’s forearms and nodded for him to do the same. Over the man’s shoulder, Soni gave him a wink with watered eyes.

  “Until I see you again, Bram. And no,” she said. “I wasn’t joking about the horse…”

  ~ ~ ~

  A dark mist suffocated all trace of firelight and Bram was certain he’d gone blind. Lucky for him, he had the other man’s arms to hold onto when the ground was suddenly stolen from beneath him, ripped away as if by the winds of a tornado. His entire body lifted into the air and his legs swung to the side. His grip on Wickham’s arms failed.

  Something hard and stationery knocked his left foot away from his right, then rose up his leg to pound his backside.

  A horse! He was seated on a hard leather saddle, his legs spread to accommodate a huge beast that started, then danced nervously in a circle while Bram fought to locate the stirrups!

  The black mist began to fade along with the night, and Bram grappled for the horse’s mane to keep from falling off. A hard dirt road spun far below him until the animal settled and stopped. To the sides of the road grew the thick green grass and heather that always covered much of Culloden Moor, but he knew in his soul he was no longer on hallowed ground.

  Surely Culloden has never born colors such as these.

  The sky was the pale blue of late summer. And though the craggy horizon upon which the sun lay was unfamiliar, the smells of morning were unmistakable. Heavy dew still hung in the air along with the slow warming of the heather bells. And there was nothing draining about the energy that radiated up from the ground.

  Time to work, it said. Not time to rest.

  After shuffling the toes of his boots into the stirrups, Bram leaned down along the horse’s neck to gather the black leather reins and found his hands covered with polished silver gauntlets.

  Fancy tack. A new, quality saddle that matched. A bedroll and satchel hung behind him, and the comforting weight of a heavy sword rested in a scabbard at his hip. A finely made, light-weight shirt of chainmail rippled beneath well-fitting armor that restricted his movements a bit.

  Chainmail. A horse. Clearly not the Aston Martin and fine clothing he’d been hoping for.

  He sighed and ever so reluctantly resigned himself to his new reality—he hadn’t been granted the power and position he’d envisioned in current day society. There would be no fast driving, no savvy negotiations that might prevent a war. No distributing a little wealth and changing lives for the better. No taking control of a powerful company, even briefly, in order to make a difference in the world.

  Obviously, he would be expected to rescue some damsel in distress.

  “Shite.”

  His horse faced north, but with all the turning it had done when presented with a sudden weight on its back, there was no telling which direction it had been headed before. Which direction should he take?

  “Give him his head.”

  Though he looked all about, he saw no trace of Wickham, but the man’s words had sounded clearly in his ears. So Bram let the reins go slack, nudged the beast with his heels, and submitted to the fate Soncerae Muir had assigned him.

  Designer chain mail and all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There were only two horses.

  Sophie looked at Wickham and waited for him to explain. It also gave her a chance to stare at him for a second. Apparently, while he’d saddled the horses, he’d also changed into a kilt. The blue and green tartan draped over one shoulder and was pinned to what looked like a nightshirt—probably something they wore in the seventeenth century. His socks were thick and wooly, and his boots had blunt square toes.

  He gave her a so
ur look. “Ye’ve never seen a man in a kilt afore?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Um… Why only two horses?”

  “Ivy will stay behind while I lead ye up into the glen, then yer lady in waiting will take ye the rest of the way to Inverbrae.”

  His wife gave her a hug and wished her luck. “I’ll be right here with your clothes when you come back.”

  Wickham tilted his head and looked Sophie up and down. “Just how much riding experience have ye?”

  This was no time to lie. One of those horses expected her to ride it.

  “Not much.”

  He shrugged. “No matter. Yer horse is as docile as they come. If ye can tell a nose from a tail, ye’ll have no problems.” He pointed to the spotted horse parked in front of her. “Dicken is yers, lass.” It looked like God had run short on paint when it got to be Dicken’s turn, so He used a dark brown on the front, tan on the back, then filled in the middle with white paint that splattered everywhere. “Not verra bonny, but he’ll nae let ye down.”

  While attaching a small bag to the back of his own horse, Wickham suggested she walk around to the other side of the trailer and relieve herself one last time.

  “One last time?” She laughed. “There will be bathrooms at Inverbrae, won’t there?”

  He laughed, said, “Dinna fash,” then waved her off. The context suggested he was telling her not to worry, but she couldn’t help it. If she was staying in a real castle, that meant plumbing might be an issue, and if she was expected to use an outhouse all weekend, she wanted to psych herself up for it.

  Once they set out for the canyon, however, she didn’t have a lot of opportunity to press her handsome escort for more information. It wasn’t a leisurely stroll up the road, and though he turned to check on her every few minutes, he always stayed ahead, never slowing down to ask her if her butt was numb yet.

  If he’d asked after the first twenty minutes, by the way, the answer would have been yes.

  After another ten minutes of worrying that she might fall out of the saddle without fully functional butt cheeks to hold her in place, she couldn’t take the suspense any longer.

  She took a deep breath and shouted. “How much longer?”

  Wickham stopped immediately, turned his horse, and came back to her, obviously worried. “Forgive me, lass. We’ll take a wee respite here if ye’d like. I’d say we’re halfway to the rendezvous point.”

  “Halfway.” Okay. She could make it another half hour. “And after we rendezvous, will it be much farther?”

  He bit his lip for a few seconds. “About the same, if ye keep the pace.”

  “Totally doable,” she said to herself.

  Wickham heard her and grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  By the time she’d remembered her next question, he had taken off again. And she realized that if she wanted a real break, she was going to have to speak up.

  ~ ~ ~

  The second half of their journey went by much quicker. Her body got used to Dicken’s rhythm, and though standing in the stirrups helped her butt wake up, her thighs burned and her waist was pretty sore from all the swiveling. The sloping mountains, however, distracted her most of the time.

  Between huge slabs of stone that jutted out of the hills like broken bones, the ground was so flat it looked like someone had smoothed frosting over it, then sprinkled fine green sugar on top. And every hundred yards or so, thick mounds of heather popped up to prove that green wasn’t the only natural color in the country.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said. “How can you stand to go back to town?”

  Wickham halted his horse and waited for her to come alongside him. “Whoever said I live in town?” He gestured toward the far end of the canyon where two other riders headed their way. “I’ll help ye down. Ye can walk about while we wait for them to come to us, aye?”

  When her feet hit the ground, her body ached so bad she moaned. Then, what was left of her pride disappeared when she realized she couldn’t walk normally. As she hobbled around in a big circle, she hoped Wickham would get the hint, by watching her, that she couldn’t get back on a horse. Unfortunately, the man seemed pre-occupied and didn’t notice anything at all.

  She eventually made it back around to him. “Um. I don’t suppose you have a golf cart or something?”

  “Sorry, lass. It must be four hooves and not four wheels that get ye to where ye’re goin’.” He dropped his gaze, cleared his throat, then let out a heavy sigh as he lifted his eyes to hers. “Before I leave, I must impress upon ye that nothing of this century can be allowed inside the Inverbrae community. I must take it all back with me, where it will remain in my safekeeping until ye collect it again.” He lifted his chin like he expected her to argue. “So if there is something ye thought to hold back, I beg ye to hand it over.”

  Her hand twitched toward her pocket before she knew it, and Wickham’s eyes followed the movement. He held out a hand.

  No way would she put a pair of already-worn underwear into his open palm! He couldn’t possibly expect her to do it!

  He wiggled his fingers. When she just stared at him, one of his dark brows rose and held. “Shall I tell these fine people we’ve wasted their time, then?”

  The pair of riders were close enough to tell that they, too, were wearing costumes. But she would bet anything they had underwear on.

  She narrowed her eyes at Wickham, but he only laughed, so she changed her mind—he did deserve to have a pair of less-than-fresh panties shoved into his hand. Unfortunately, it didn’t keep her from blushing when she did it.

  “How did you know?”

  He glanced at the couple now fifty yards away, then discreetly showed her his cell phone. A text read…

  No undies in the bag.

  ~ ~ ~

  The stealthy way Wickham hid his phone from the couple on horseback convinced her he wasn’t supposed to have it on him. But she had no chance to blackmail him into giving back her underwear.

  The horses slowed as they neared. The couple looked about the same age as she was, though she couldn’t have guessed how old Wickham was. The other man’s costume had a wide white collar over his short, fancy jacket of dull gold. Over that billowed a loose brown cape.

  Sophie wondered if he was trying to be a Puritan and a Musketeer.

  His hair was long and blond. He wore no hat even though the whole get-up was crying out for a feather or two. He wore fancy shoes and knee-high stockings. His knees were left bare in the gap between the socks and the bottom of his brown skirt.

  Sophie didn’t think it counted as a kilt if it wasn’t plaid.

  The woman had a dark bonnet with lace that draped down over her hair, as if lace might keep some of the road dust out of her rich brown curls that were just a little darker than Sophie’s ill-behaved hair. She wore a cheerful but nervous smile and a shiny brown dress that was made of the same stuff as Sophie’s, though it had much less detail. And over her shoulder, she sported a sash of tartan—purple and brown plaid with a thin line of orange crossing through it. The way she was eyeing the green costume gave Sophie hope that maybe they could swap at some point.

  The horses stopped. The man inclined his head. Very formal.

  “Lord Muir. My lady. I am Harris, Lord Ogilvy’s man.” His accent was much more pronounced than Wickham’s. He gestured to the woman. “My lady wife, Peg.” The woman did a little bow in the saddle. “She will act as your lady in waiting until you choose another.”

  Harris started to dismount, but Wickham stopped him. “I will help her back on her horse so ye can be on yer way.” He slid off his horse, grabbed her elbow, and led her back to Dicken.

  She was suddenly sick at the thought of him leaving her in the hands of actors who obviously took their parts seriously. At least Wickham was good for a laugh now and then, even when he’d been laughing at her.

  A melodramatic weekend was not what she’d had in mind.

  Wickham turned her to face the horse. She turned right back again. “
Listen—”

  “Nay, lass. You listen. You will have a grand, memorable weekend in Inverbrae. But ye must be brave about it. Happiness never washes up at yer feet. Ye must chase it down with hands outstretched.” He nudged her around again. “Trust me, aye? And trust Peg.” He locked his fingers, and when she stepped onto them, he lifted her high enough to throw her leg over the saddle. Then he gave her a fierce look. “You can do hard things, Sophie. Godspeed.”

  He slapped her horse’s rump and it jumped, then took off toward the far end of the valley. She held on tight, waiting to die, but relaxed a little when Harris and Peg appeared on either side of her, their horses galloping just as fast as her own. Wherever they were headed, they were going to make great time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sophie’s gut flooded with adrenaline. It was impossible to tell if it was dread due to taking off with the strangers dressed strangely, headed for a place where everyone would probably be delusional to some degree. Or was she just excited? Unfortunately, the one person she trusted at the moment was the guy riding in the other direction.

  Wickham.

  She turned in her saddle and watched his dark figure grow smaller as he moved away. In another ten seconds, he would be gone from sight. Another rush of adrenaline had her clenching her stomach muscles.

  Did she really want to do this?

  She wasn’t usually a chicken, but there was nobody there to ridicule her if she backed out. The tour hadn’t been too expensive when she’d signed up. And with her current bank account, she really didn’t have to go through with it. It really wouldn’t hurt to lose that seven hundred dollars…

  “What would it hurt?” It was a question her grandma used to ask in just about every situation. But as the question echoed in Sophie’s head, she knew Grandma would be asking what would it hurt to try?

  She didn’t have an answer. She just hoped at the end of the weekend she would still be in one piece, that she hadn’t been expected to do anything too disgusting like gut a deer, and that she would have at least one interesting story to share.