Ghosts of Culloden Moor 13 - Kennedy

by LL Muir

  KENNEDY

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 13)

  By L.L. Muir

  AMAZON KDP EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  Kennedy © 2015 L.Lytle

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  DEDICATION

  For those with big voices

  and bigger hearts…

  who speak with

  such passion

  that no one can hear them.

  Go ahead.

  Be the loudest one in the room.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A NOTE ABOUT THE GHOSTS

  The Gathering should be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.

  The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Culloden Moor, night

  After the departure of Seoc Macbeth and Dougal Cameron, the spirits of Culloden’s 79 settled a bit. No doubt they all wondered, as Kennedy did, if the late hour meant their witch would call it a night. But Soncerae lingered.

  In the center of the gathering, the burning pyre waned as the young witch paced ‘round it in a circle, her dark robes trailing behind her. With a flick of her wrist, the flames strengthened and sparks flew into the inky night sky as if she’d tossed a heavy stump upon the phantom logs that burned at her command.

  Each night that she’d returned, she’d summoned the fire back, and it sprang up as alive and hungry as when she’d built it from earthly wood in the wee hours of the Summer Solstice. Would it ever burn itself away?

  What a blessing such a fire would have been on the night before the battle, when their thousands had been chilled to the bone. For it was a mean combination—cold, hunger, fatigue. Three formidable allies to place on the side of the enemy. For the duke’s army had been well-outfitted, well-fed, and well-rested.

  The Highlanders would have fought well in any case, of course. It was the terrain that turned the tide, and their leader who could not see it. But still, if those warriors could have known such a fire for a wee while, and had perhaps ten minutes’ sleep…

  Kennedy wondered just how warm that fire might be with only supernatural wood. And since it seemed no more real than Culloden’s 79, might they somehow feel it?

  Soncerae turned as if she’d heard the question in Kennedy’s mind. With a laughing smile, she beckoned with both hands. “Come, Kennedy, and see for yourself.” A nod of her head made it plain—the witch was insisting.

  Still, the soldier held back, hoping the remainder of the 79 would be sent first so there would be no audience for the impending argument. But there was a mischievous glint in Soni’s eye that made it clear she would love nothing more than to expose Kennedy’s secret to the others—and when she did, it would be impossible to remain on the moor a moment afterward.

  “Come,” the witch invited. “Come and ease yer burden, Kennedy. I’ll be surprised if every man here doesn’t already know yer secrets.”

  Eager to stop the witch from speaking another word, Kennedy cut through the crowd with a brisk stride and a warning glower. However, the young woman’s smile only broadened as the soldier drew near.

  Five feet from the fire, Kennedy hissed. “Dinna do this.”

  Soni’s smile dropped away. “Forgive me, but there is no use dragging it out, aye? Yer quest awaits. Yer boon as well—”

  “I want nothing of the boon, do ye hear? I only wish to abide here, in peace. Only hell awaits me, Soni, and ye ken it. There is no room in Heaven for the anger in my breast.”

  The witch’s head shook. “Nay. I will not believe it.”

  Kennedy took a menacing step forward and the green light that usually swirled languidly around Soni’s knees rose up between them. A thin wall of emerald-tinged faces warned the soldier to retreat. For a drawn out moment, Kennedy considered defying them. But it was the unease of the 79 that finally got the soldier’s attention.

  They, too, would protect the witch, from one of their own if need be.

  In disgust, Kennedy stomped away, then turned back to the fire and Soncerae if only to avoid the inquisitive looks from the others. At least one question had its answer—there was no warmth to the flames. Such an unnatural fire would have been a comfort to no one before the battle, just as it was no comfort now.

  A loud curse carried across the wet air. Kennedy turned to the left and found Gerard Ross stomping in their direction, his brow a dark cloud. Both Kennedy and Soni took a step back.

  “Enough of this foolishness,” he spat. “Ye will go and do as ye’re bidden and count yerself blessed that ye willna pass another night on the moor.” He continued to advance until his boots nearly touched the soldier’s. “This is was no place for young Rabby, and it’s no place for ye. I’ve always kenned yer reasons for haunting this sorry place were not the same as the rest.” He lifted his arm in a wide circle. “We’ve all kenned it, lass. And we have allowed ye yer privacy. But ye must trust our Soni. She did well by Rabby. She’ll do well by ye.”

  Lass. The word was like an arrow in the heart. Nearly two hundred seventy years of hiding amongst them, and they’d known all the while?

  Mortified and feeling a fool, she kept her eyes downcast.

  “Look at me, lass. Look at me.”

  Ross’s voice was compelling, as was the temptation to drink in the sight of the handsome warrior now that they were nose to nose. His ice blue eyes searched for her very soul.

  “I would know yer name.” His eyes narrowed. “Turn loose yer hair, lassie.”

  She shook her head. “If I go, ye’ll not be seein’ me again. Kennedy will do.”

  “Nay, lass. I will have yer name. I vow it rests on the tip of my tongue, but ye must help me.” His nostrils flared, his lowered brow demanded. But it was the caress of his voice she could not deny.

  “I am Nessa.”

  His face fell. Gerard Ross kenned the meaning well enough then, kenned his Irish mythology. He would be hard pressed to forget her now. She certainly wouldn’t be forgetting him.

  Time hadn’t mattered. Whether it was a day, a week, or several centuries, she would have been just as taken with the man. The way he moved, spoke, looked—he’d been an obsession from the beginning. But it was in the flesh that she’d noticed him first, and it was her mortal woman’s heart that remembered him and honored him for what she’d seen.

  He’d been one of three men she’d remembered from the battle. Perhaps brothers or clansmen. Perhaps strangers. They’d stood together to meet the advancing Red Coats and done well. When Nessa hadn’t been engaged in the fight herself, she’d glanced off to her right, to see how the trio fared. One man’s leg was sliced open. Ross exchanged a look with the third man who quickly bent and lifted t
he injured man over his shoulder, then turned and fought his way back out of the mud, away from the fight.

  Ross tossed his targe aside, filled both hands with steel, and took on the five Hanoverians intent on running past him. Five. And he laid them all low before he toppled to the ground, never to rise again as a living, breathing man.

  His spirit, however, was a sight to behold. At least Nessa had always thought so. The rest of the 79 gave him due respect, but never appreciated what she had. She’d assumed it was only because they hadn’t witnessed his sacrifice on the battlefield. But standing there, facing him, no longer playing at being a lad, she had to admit that her admiration had much to do with her woman’s heart—were she still possessed of one.

  She’d been careful to never get too close to any of Culloden’s 79, save Rabby. The boy had reached her side before she’d realized the truth, that she had not risen from the battlefield to go home again, but to remain… And before she’d thought to hide her sex, the lad had seen enough to know.

  For the longest while, she’d been glad of her ethereal existence. Still seething with anger for her brother and cousins who had ignored her pleas to stay out of the fight, she’d had no wished to move on to the next life if it meant the four lads would be waiting there for her. Of course she missed them after a while, and sometimes she was shaken by aspects of her new reality. But all things passed, eventually. And there was nothing on Culloden Moor that could break her heart or trip her temper again.

  There, she was free. And, apart from the occasional reminder from both the living and the dead, she was able to forget the horrible loss of her kinsmen and countrymen for long stretches. Life was simple. No meals to cook or rugs to beat. No dogs or muddy small brothers to chase away from her newly cleaned floors. No need to ration the peat for the fire.

  Life, as a ghost, was peaceful. No downside, as the Americans would say.

  But when she thought about those four stubborn idiots she called kin, that peace sizzled and died like water dripped in a hot pot. She was just careful not to think of them much.

  And moving on to the next life, or the hereafter, was something she would fight against, tooth and nail, for she was fair to certain what awaited her. Either she would burn in the fires of Hell for the anger in her heart, or she would, by some miracle, be pardoned and allowed into Heaven.

  But if she were permitted to walk down streets of gold, her unbending, pig-headed kin would be accepted there as well. And one look at their aggravating faces and those golden streets would be torn to bits with their fighting. For, it was a fact, she would take their heads off for not listening to her back in April of 1746.

  She put her chin in the air. “I’ll not go, Ross.”

  He raised a single brow, no doubt intending to cow her. His hand rose slowly toward her cheek, and she closed her eyes, wishing she could feel his touch, even if it were only for a moment.

  The sudden splash of tires on the wet, paved drive drew everyone’s attention, including Nessa’s. The vehicle stopped where the wee road bent closest to the battlefield, where cars were not allowed to park. A solitary man emerged wearing a black leather coat that quickly grew shiny with the rain and reflected the flashes of Soncerae’s fire.

  When he drew within a hundred feet of their gathering, it became clear that he could see all in attendance. His gaze took them in, but his expression was guarded. That was, until he looked at the wee witch.

  He gave her a wink and a smile. “Good evening, niece.”

  “Uncle.” She hurried to him and wrapped her arms around him. There was no ring of green light to hinder their embrace. The only illumination, for the moment, was the orange glow and yellow flashes from the bonfire.

  All Soni’s waiting and pacing must have been for this man.

  Eventually, the witch and her uncle turned to face Nessa. Still standing next to her, Ross took a step that put his specter between them, as if he didn’t trust the newcomer. And since she trusted Ross’s instincts, she decided she should be wary as well, even though the man was obviously kin to their Soni.

  “Not a step closer,” Ross warned. Though how he imagined this man was a threat to either of them, she didn’t know.

  The uncle slowed and stopped. With a bemused frown, he looked Ross over from head to toe and back again. “Ah. You must be Gerard Ross, then.”

  The warrior nodded.

  “I am Wickham. My niece needs help sending Miss Kennedy where she must go. I am that help.” He tipped his head to the side to get a better look at her, but she had the feeling he also mocked Ross for trying to protect her. “It is the lass’s turn, aye?” He gave her a wink and straightened, raised his brows at the warrior and waited.

  Soni pushed her way between the men. “Was it not ye, Gerard Ross, who just insisted Nessa stop her foolishness and be gone from here? Hm?” She rolled her eyes. “What is so different now?”

  Ross stood still for a long moment, then turned to face Nessa. “Soni trusts him.”

  She nodded. “Seems so.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing for it, then. Fare thee well, lass.”

  Nessa nodded, not trusting her voice. Once again, his hand rose to caress her cheek, and she could swear she felt the brush of his fingers. The sensation was fleeting, and probably imagined, but she vowed she would never forget it.

  “Almost like a memory,” he whispered. Then, reluctantly, his awe-inspiring self stepped aside but remained within an arm’s length of her.

  She swallowed her regret and faced the man in black who looked far too young to be called Uncle.

  He stepped close and smiled. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “Don’t be nervous, Nessa.”

  “I am not,” she lied.

  “Good. Now. Ye must hold onto me, ye see. Ye canna let go. So place yer arms over mine and grab tight, aye?”

  He held out his forearms with supplicant hands. When she rested her arms on his, he took a firm hold of her elbows. She grasped him in kind, though she had a shorter reach.

  She glanced to the side, hoping the sight of Gerard Ross would be a lasting image to take with her, but he wasn’t there. Nothing was there. No flicker of bonfire, no shifting of shadows as the ghosts moved and shuffled about for a better view.

  She turned to look at Soni, but she was gone too. There was no night, no day, no gray in between. It was as if she and Wickham existed not at all, standing in a place that wasn’t there.

  Too frightened by what she couldn’t see, she closed her eyes. So the first sensation to return to her was sound.

  Rain drummed on a piece of wood. Pat, pat pat, pat pat. It tapped fast against a ceramic bell. Tink, tink, tink.

  She knew the pitch and tone of each.

  By the heavens, she was home!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nessa’s father and uncle had been fortunate in the eighteenth century. They’d worked two fine plots of land that had produced thriving animals and healthy crops, and thanks to the many Kennedy children, mostly her cousins, the laird had never seen fit to put that land in anyone’s hands but the brothers. So in addition to full bellies and warm fires most evenings, they’d also known peace—until Bonnie Prince Charlie arrived in the isles.

  Nessa dared not blink her eyes for fear the vision and sensations might be gone again, that she might wake and find she’d only been dreaming of home. With Wickham still holding to her arms, however, she allowed herself to hope.

  “Aye, lass. Ye’re home,” he said with a grin.

  She shook her head, unbelieving. “But when am I home, sir?”

  “April, 1746. Soni said it’s all ye’ve wished for, through the years, to come back and try again to save someone.”

  Her heart soared. It was true! She was home! And now, she would have that chance to use all the arguments she wished she could have used so long ago, to help her brother, Jacky, see what folly it would be to join the fight.

  She looked around the room, worried who might be watching and listenin
g. For how would she explain the man she’d returned with? Luckily, the cottage was empty except for a familiar figure standing at the kitchen table with a wet cloth in her hands.

  It was herself.

  The other her looked up just then and their gazes clashed. But before Nessa had time to do more than open her mouth, her other self faded like a bit of ground wheat flour blown into the wind.

  She was gone.

  Nessa turned to Wickham, but the only thing remaining of him was the warmth she still felt beneath her arms, and even that faded quickly. She was standing alone in the center of her childhood home with nothing to prove that the battle of Drumossie Moor had ever taken place.

  Nothing other than her own memories of the fight…and nearly a hundred thousand days since then.

  She felt a sudden chill and wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. The harsh cloth of her shirt sleeve was something she hadn’t truly felt for centuries. Though it was rough and made her skin suddenly itch, she was still grateful for the sensation. She caught site of her reflection, however, in the glass of the window and realized how starkly different she looked in men’s clothing compared to what the other her had been wearing. If she didn’t change, and quickly, she would have much explaining to do.

  The ladder to the loft bent with her weight—a weight she hadn’t known for so long it made her laugh. In her end of the loft, sectioned off with a squat folding screen, she found her clothes waiting just where she’d left them. The gown the other her had worn a moment ago now hung on a peg. For some reason, she felt it wise to present herself just as that Nessa had looked, so she slipped it on. But it was only a matter of time before the game would be up. After all, she’d forgotten so much about her life, she wondered if she could play the role believably.

  Life. It was good to feel it coursing through her veins again, shaking her bones with each beat of her heart. So strange to hear the rasp and clap of her eyelids each time she blinked.