Ghosts of Culloden Moor 13 - Kennedy

by LL Muir

  Air. She needed more air.

  After a deep breath, she shook her head, still disbelieving. “Gerard Ross, is it truly ye, then? And where is Soncerae?”

  He ceased looking her over for possible injuries and frowned. “Aye. I am he. Have we met somewhere before?”

  It was a fine feeling having him searching her eyes, standing close, speaking low. It was a sensation she had only imagined that night on Culloden Moor, just before Wickham intruded. But now, in the flesh, she considered it a boon indeed. But a boon she had no yet earned.

  “Come, now, Ross. Dinna pretend ye canna recognize me.”

  He frowned harder. “Let loose yer hair, lassie.”

  Hadn’t he said the same thing on the moor? Any second, he would know her.

  She grinned and pushed her hood back to reveal her thick mane of red curls. “There now, ye’ve seen it. What do ye think?”

  A mix of amusement and confusion lingered in his eyes and she blushed and turned away. Neither was the reaction she’d hoped for. But then she blushed again when she realized what she truly had been hoping for—that he would fall truly, madly, deeply in love with her the moment he’d seen her in good light.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t seem likely.

  She looked over the hillside from whence he’d come and checked the road in both directions. “Where is Soni? Did she not come with ye? Or Wickham?”

  Ross shook his head. “Nay, lass. I truly believe ye have confused me with another. Though I wonder how ye ken my name.”

  It was her turn to be confused, but it didn’t last long. The ghost of Gerard Ross would have known her on site after he’d had such a close look at her on the moor, darkness or no. But Gerard Ross—the man—wouldn’t know her from Adam.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “The men who accosted me… I canna think clearly at the moment.” For effect, she put her hand to her forehead and stumbled, pretending.

  Ross grabbed one of her hands, wrapped an arm around her waist, and led her back to the wall. “‘Tis no wonder, lass. Ye must have been frightened for yer life. Though…” He chuckled. “I’ve never seen a woman tell her firing squad to kiss her arse.”

  The mention of a firing squad summoned to mind the memory of the battle, and the massacre that followed. And that inspiration she’d been hoping for shone down on her like a spotlight from Heaven.

  Maybe she couldn’t save her kin. Perhaps she needn’t save herself. But if she made enough changes to Gerard Ross’s original plans…she could at least save him!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gerard gazed at the woman before him and thanked God he’d been able to help her. When he’d crested the hill and seen the standoff, he’d hoped the trio would simply take the woman’s sack and be on their way. Whatever she had inside couldn’t have been as valuable as her life, and could likely be replaced. After all, her clothing proved she was no peasant, which was probably why she’d been accosted in the first place.

  A pity she hadn’t been more accommodating. They might have even left her with her virtue.

  Now, he was simply grateful he’d had the time to load his weapon and fire before she suggested her way into a grave. If he hadn’t been drilling for months, cutting down the time it took to load his weapon, he might have been too late.

  He’d been so shocked by her defiance, he might have missed his target had he allowed himself to laugh.

  Kiss my arse.

  What a thing for a woman to say!

  “I would have yer name, lass.”

  She nodded. “Assa.”

  “And yer surname?”

  She shrugged. “Assa should do, for now.”

  He nodded and offered her a drink from his flask. She smiled and took it, then choked on the contents.

  “I expected water,” she whispered, still catching her breath.

  “Water won’t keep me warm tonight, lass.” He stopped himself from imagining something that would.

  Her head of curls bobbed up and down and she handed the flask back to him.

  It had to be said. “It is folly to travel alone, Assa.”

  “I know it,” she said. “But I doubt the mail coach would take me to the battlefield, aye?”

  “Battlefield?”

  She shook her head. “Forgive me. I am bound for Drumossie Moor. My brother has run off to join the fight, along with our cousins. I was determined to drag him back home again before he gets killed.”

  “Was? Ye’ve changed yer mind?”

  Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. “He’ll never listen to me,” she whispered. “I follow him in vain.” She shrugged and looked away for a moment. “Ye’re headed that way yerself?”

  “I am for Inverness, for word of the regiments. Just as soon as I’ve left a wee offering at the well.”

  She grinned. “For the fairies?”

  “Aye.”

  “May I come along?”

  He considered, then nodded. “I vow I will keep ye safe, lass, as long as our paths are the same.”

  She grinned up at him and her charming face dimpled in half a dozen places. “And I vow I will keep ye safe as well, Mr. Ross.”

  ~

  Nessa accepted a great deal more aid from the warrior than she honestly needed. She might have climbed to the top of the rise on her own, but neither of them would know for sure.

  Once they reached the small peak, they found the source of the wee spring halfway down the face of the other side.

  “This,” he said, “is Clootie Well.”

  “And this is the fairy hill?”

  He nodded. “From all around the region folks bring an offering for the fairies to ensure clean water, a good harvest, or the recovered health of a loved one. Any offering will do, though it is common knowledge that fairies love shiny things. A broken bit of mirror. A pretty ribbon. A button.”

  The hillside was littered with all manner of tokens. Bits of cloth, large and small, had been tied onto every branch of every tree—even to the roots that inched up out of the earth. Though she’d heard of the place, it was far more enchanting than she’d imagined.

  “It is a marvelous thing, is it not,” she said, “that no one steals the prettiest things away.”

  Just then, they both noticed a large piece of rotting cloth half-absorbed into the ground itself. If it had once had color, it was long gone. They laughed in unison.

  No one would keep a sober face when that man laughed. Mortals and ghosties alike. She’d heard it a hundred times from across the moor and been comforted to know that somewhere, there was joy.

  “Pretty things doona last long out of doors in the Highlands,” he said. “But nay, I suppose few are foolish enough to tempt a fairy’s wrath, whether or not they are true believers.”

  True believers. It was a term used often for those who raised funds and forces for the Jacobite cause. And the true believers were about to be handed their hats.

  Perhaps it was the fairy hill that inspired her again, but she suddenly knew what had to be done.

  She pulled her mother’s ring from her finger and slid it onto a young green branch. “For Jacky,” she whispered. She knew the truth in her heart, that this was the last thing she could do for her brother. She could spend her last day searching in vain, for a brother that would never listen, or she could put that time to good use and save someone she could actually get her hands on.

  Choking back her tears, she kissed her fingers and touched the ring one last time, then turned to consider the man standing beside her, setting out his gifts for the fairies—no doubt to win favor in the conflicts to come.

  This man, she vowed, would not be slaughtered on Drumossie Moor on the morrow. Not while there was breath left in her.

  She understood her duty now, and she was going to save him, even if she had to tell him the truth—whether or not he became a true believer… in a witch named Soncerae.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gerard stared at the lass longer than he should and the
pair of them blushed. But he couldn’t help himself. There was something strangely familiar about the woman even though he was sure they’d never met before. So how could that be? And how did she know his name? Was she regretting the slip, hoping he would forget?

  There was nothing familiar about her voice, to be sure. Nothing familiar about the way she spoke to the vagabonds, either. It was a fact that few women and not many men would have been so defiant in the face of danger. Foolish, certainly. And she was keeping more than her last name from him.

  Why had she said she would die soon? Bravado? He hoped so.

  In truth, he had no more time to dally on a fairy hill and tease answers from her. And if he stared at her any longer, he might forget his purpose altogether.

  “Come, lass. We mustn’t dally. Those deserters might return for their friend’s body and we should be well away from here.”

  Back on the road, they set off at a goodly pace. Just above Munlochy, they turned south toward Beauly Firth. The way was much smoother then, and he finally hoped to get some answers. Some mysteries between them could not be ignored.

  For instance, when they were climbing the fairy hill…

  He’d offered his hand and, after a brief hesitation, she took it. The touch of her fingers against his felt like a treat he’d longed for, and the rush of emotion that accompanied that touch could not be explained. At least not by him. For fear that the intense satisfaction would dissolve if examined too closely. Had his life simply been devoid of females for too long?

  He didn’t think so. But neither could he think of a way to ask her about the emotions she evoked in him. She would think him mad.

  He cleared his throat. “Lass. ‘Tis time ye told me how ye ken my name.”

  “Your name?”

  “Aye. Ye called me by my name when first ye caught sight of me. And doona deny it.”

  She offered a pitiable smile. “It is a long story.”

  “It is a long road.”

  She released a heavy sigh. “Do ye have many relations by the same name, perhaps?”

  “Nay, lass. Give up the game. Ye’ve seen me before, though I’ve never seen you. I will know why.”

  She bit her lower lip for a good while, and just when he was about to chide her, she finally loosed her tongue. “What would you say if I told you we have met before—but in a dream?”

  At first, he was perturbed at being put off yet again when he truly wished to know the truth. But after a breath or two, he had the strangest impression that what she said was true. For her own familiarity seemed like it came from something…not quite real. But he wasn’t about to spout such nonsense to her, a stranger. And in spite of the magic he felt in her touch, he could not trust her. At the moment, no one in Scotland could be trusted unless they had openly declared their politics. And even then, he would trust no man until they fought shoulder to shoulder with him.

  As for women… Well, women weren’t to be trusted at all where politics were concerned, especially one who would not identify her clan. But on the subject of otherworldly matters?

  He shook his head. No. He would trust nothing, especially when they were still so near the fairy hill.

  That was the answer! The fairy hill! Perhaps she was a fairy in woman form come to tempt him away from the battle, or the pair of them were being used by some magical creature for its own entertainment.

  He nearly laughed at the idea, but decided sobriety was best and lowered his brow. “Nay, lassie. I’ll not believe it. I suggest ye give me the truth. After coming to yer aid, ye owe me that, I would say.”

  She nodded. “Ye’re right. I do owe ye the truth. But, like I said before, it is a terribly long tale to tell, and I… I couldn’t possibly be expected to tell it and walk at the same time, aye? If ye’ll escort me back home, I promise to feed ye well while ye listen to my story. And I’m a fine cook, if I do say so myself.”

  He stopped and faced her, trying to intimidate her with a fierce look. “Ye mean to tempt me away from my duty, then, like some nymph from the well itself?”

  She feigned innocence—and did so quickly enough to prove her guilt. “Nay, sir. I am no temptress. I but wish to thank ye for coming to my rescue. And since those blackguards took my sack, I have nothing with which to reward ye.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth with thoughts of being rewarded with a simple kiss. Perhaps two. But he still couldn’t trust her enough to close his eyes and enjoy it in the first place.

  “And I suppose ye live west of here?” he asked with only mild sarcasm.

  Her eyes lit with what could only be hope. “Aye, just a mite.

  “Oh? Muir of Ord, perhaps?”

  “Nay. Just in Dingwall.”

  He barked with laughter. Dingwall was, in fact, further away than Ord. It would take them hours to reach the town, and hours to return, no closer to Inverness and his duty than they were at that moment. In answer, he took a step back and turned down the road again, toward the firth. If the lass had much care for her person, she would come along. Her original destination meant she had to cross at Kessock, the same as he. Why change her course now?

  If her brother had gone in search of Charles Stuart’s army, and she truly sought her brother, returning to the west made no sense at all—unless there was no brother, and her goal all the while had been to lure him away from his regiment?

  He was disgusted with himself for not thinking of it straightaway. But then again, the lass was comely, her voice compelling, her bravado—captivating.

  Heaven help him, he was a fool.

  Obviously, the trio who attacked the lass were cohorts. And this Assa, whomever she was, had been commissioned to lure officers like himself away from their regiments.

  Oh, how close he’d come to believing there might be something remarkable between them. How foolish he’d been not to ask her, from the beginning, how she’d known his name.

  And that excitement he’d felt when their fingers first touched?

  A man’s simple reaction to the attention of a pretty lass. A man who had spent far too much time in the company of soldiers since summer last.

  He walked on. His ears strained for the sound of the clever woman’s footsteps behind him. But they never came.

  How foolish, he realized, to turn his back on the enemy!

  Before he’d finished the thought, he spun on his heel and pulled his sword free. But neither the lass nor her cohorts followed him. The only person on the road, besides himself, was the woman…lying in a heap on the ground.

  CHAPTER NINE

  After a cursory scan of the surrounding shrubbery and trees to the left, and no sign of the villains, he bent over the lass, all the while keeping a wary eye on her hands. If she’d fainted in truth, he’d be greatly surprised.

  “Lass? What is it?”

  She showed no response, but her breathing was fairly normal and there was no sign of blood. If she’d been wounded, there should have been blood.

  “I’ll not carry ye home,” he said in a normal tone, “no matter what yer complaint. And I’ll not wait half the day for ye to rise, either, if that was yer hope. Ye can do as ye please, but I am off. I’d suggest ye doona lie about on the ground for long. Beasts will find ye. Four legs or two, they will find ye.” And with that, he stood and walked away again, only he did so backward to watch for her reaction.

  She rolled her head to the side and peeked with one eye.

  “Ah hah!” He stopped and pointed.

  She sat upright and glared. “I canna believe ye would leave a woman lying on the ground, Ross.”

  “And I canna believe ye would lie down on the ground to tempt a man to… To forget his duty and his principles.”

  Her eyes widened and she blushed. Obviously, she hadn’t thought through the consequences of her little charade.

  He took pity on her and returned to help her to her feet. She brushed the dirt from the back of her skirts and watched him warily, as if it had been his suggestion that she invite unwelcom
e attention.

  “Dinna think it, lass,” he said sternly.

  Standing face to face, however, brought on another wave of elusive emotions—like the memory of a powerful dream that had caused him to wake on the verge of weeping. What was it about the lass that could bring him up short like that, when he was absolutely certain he’d never met her before?

  The fairy answer seemed obvious, but irrational. In spite of visiting the fairy hill many times out of respect for the traditions of his forefathers, he still couldn’t believe the lass was somehow a fairy in human form. But what else could it be? Witchcraft?

  The woman winced and Gerard realized he’d whispered the word aloud.

  He lent about as much credence to witches as to fairies, but for some reason, the idea made his bones tingle beneath his skin.

  God help me.

  The woman recoiled. “Why would ye say such a thing to me?”

  He shook his head briskly. “Pay me no heed, lass. My mind wandered is all.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What’s it to be then? Will ye share the road with me to Inverness? Or do we part ways now?”

  She huffed, obviously none too pleased with the choices offered. “I’ll share the road.” Her grumbled words were clear enough, and they started down the road once again.

  Her capitulation made him suspicious, however. Was she touched in the head? If she wasn’t the enemy, wasn’t in league with the three villains, why was she still determined that they stay together?

  Nothing of what she’d said or done made sense to him. Nothing was simple, that was for certain. The villains were not close on their heels—he would have sensed them, if not seen them by now.

  He watched her circumspectly as they travelled in silence—just as she watched him. But what was she watching for? Recognition? Did she suffer from the same waves of mysterious emotion each time they touched or stood too close? Was she determined to solve the mystery? Or did she already hold the answer and waited for him to understand it?

  Was she truly his enemy?

  Doubtful. He had no proof either for or against.