Ghosts of Culloden Moor 13 - Kennedy

by LL Muir

  “Nay, love. Dinna leave me. I’m…frightened.”

  He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “My Assa?” He snorted. “Ye forget, lass. I’ve heard ye take on three armed men and dare them to shoot ye. I cannot believe a little darkness and a wee time alone would bother ye a whit.”

  “I’m not afraid for me, love. Haven’t you listened? I am afraid for ye. Can you not give me a day, just one day, to prove what I say is true? Can you not give me until noon tomorrow to join the others. If what I say is false, then ye have no need to hurry away. The battle may not begin for another day or more. Am I wrong?”

  “Nay, lass. I slipped out to meet with a messenger. I ken the armies are close to Culloden, to Drumossie, like ye say. But ye might have heard it from a messenger of yer own, aye?”

  “I’ve been with you since this morning. I’ve seen no one without ye.”

  “Ye might have had word before we met up. It doesna matter now. I only know that I must go.”

  “And I know just as surely that ye must not. Please.” She took his head in her hands and tried to convince him, with her lips, how badly she wanted him to stay. But he resisted.

  “Lass,” he said against her mouth. “Even a practiced seduction could not keep me here this night, no matter how strong my feelings for ye.”

  “Ye feel strongly for me, then?” She leaned forward again, but he resisted.

  “Aye, lass. I’ve felt it from the first time ye took my hand, on the fairy hill. I’ve fought it all day, but there is no use. In the morning, return to Dingwall and I will come for ye when there is a Stuart on the throne, or when the cause is lost. I swear it.”

  “Nay. Kiss me.”

  “I will not, lass. I cannot.”

  Tears burst from her eyes. “Why can ye not stay out of this one battle. Just this one.”

  He considered for a moment. “Ye say ye ken the future. Ye ken that I will die if I go?”

  “Aye. I know it.”

  “Ye say ye saw me. Did I fight well?” Even though he didn’t believe it, he dreaded the news that he hadn’t.

  She looked down. “What does it matter?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Aye. Of course ye fought well. Ye beat back many, left plenty of bodies on the ground. Is that what ye wish to hear?”

  He chose his next words carefully. “And believing that—”

  “Knowing it—”

  “Aye, knowing it. Then ye also know that the Red Coats I don’t stop tomorrow—because I am not there to do so—will kill even more of my kinsmen than they might have.”

  She gasped and got to her feet. “I don’t care about them. I care about ye.” But even as she said it, she realized he was right. Many more lives would be lost.

  “Believe this, lass. Know this. That if I do not fight tomorrow, even if what ye claim is true, I would never forgive myself.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, even though she sounded like a petulant child. “At least you’ll be alive in your misery.”

  He laughed and got to his feet. She lunged around him and stood between him and the door knob, clasping it behind her as if she could control him completely if she only held on tightly enough.

  “One more kiss? For luck,” he said.

  She shook her head. He grasped her chin and she resisted, but half-heartedly. She knew if she gave in to this last kiss, she was kissing him goodbye. But had to admit she couldn’t really stop the man. He was as determined to go as Jacky had been. And he was about to walk out of her life, with or without a kiss.

  She released the door knob, stepped forward, and lifted her arms around his neck. “For luck.”

  He kissed her gently once more. Her tears wet both their faces, but that couldn’t stop her from telling him, silently, just how much she had loved him—would love him.

  The embrace ended abruptly, however, when the room lit up. They both hurried around the remnants of the bed to the side window. Shouting voices pierced the night air. A fire, a block away, ate up the sides of a large barn. Animals fled out the doors and in all directions, with no urging needed from the men trying to save them.

  “It’s a distraction,” Gerard said. “Mullens.” He hurried back to the door. Like waving away a pest, he flicked the chair out of his way, then faced her. “Go home, Assa. I’ll find ye, I swear it. And pray for us all.” He pulled the door open and was gone.

  She felt instantly empty. And after a minute’s hesitation, she ran after him. By the time she reached the larder, he was already at the back door with his kilt and weapons in his arms. He gave her one last smile, his image lit by the fire outside—the leggings, the long shirt—he looked like a very pirate absconding with her heart.

  “Gerard! I will pray for ye.”

  He winked. “And I shall pray yer prophecy is wrong!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nessa raced up the stairs in search of a rear window. She had to know that he’d gotten away!

  The smallest bedchamber was the only room with a view to the back, and she had to climb onto a chest of drawers in order to see out of the high window. Finally, she found the figure she was looking for. His dark shirt made him little more than a shadow at the side of the barn. He disappeared again and she held her breath while she watched the steps, praying no one would follow after him.

  The light of the barn fire had dimmed, as had the shouting. She’d delayed him too long!

  Jean-Yves’ barn sat back so far on the hill she couldn’t see all of it. But she was certain Gerard hadn’t come back out again. Was there another door in the rear? How could she know he wasn’t inside at the moment, fighting for his life?

  She was no use to him hiding inside the house. And she’d be no use to him flying around the hillside with a bloody sail of a dress billowing around her. What she needed were men’s clothes, and luckily, their absent host hadn’t taken everything with him.

  ~

  By the time Nessa emerged out the back of the house, the light of the fire was gone. Voices murmured from down the way. A man soothing his animals. A burst of laughter from the pub across the street.

  She strode up the steps as though she had every right to be on the property, then walked casually to the barn as Gerard had done earlier, during the storm.

  Again, she held her breath while she reached for the latch. The door swung easily. Her hesitation was brief before she stepped into the darkness beyond.

  “Hello,” she called softly, not fool enough to use any names.

  A figure emerged from the darkest shadows. It was not Gerard, but a face she’d never seen before.

  “For whom have ye come,” the man asked. There was a flare of orange light, then a lantern closed again behind him. There were others, then. An ambush? Or friends of Paddy Mullens?

  “State yer business, laddie.”

  The stranger had taken a good look at her and still believed she was a lad. Apparently, the cap covered her hair well enough, just as the one she’d worn for nearly three hundred years…

  She nodded. “I only wanted to make certain…nothing unfortunate has happened to…a friend.”

  The man nodded. “And yer friend?”

  “Who are ye?” She folded her arms and refused to say more.

  He shook his head, just as unwilling to share information. “If yer friend is Ross, he has already gone. The last cart is full, but we always have room for one willing to fight…for Jimmy.”

  Jimmy? James! King James Stuart. But did she really wish to witness the massacre again?

  Gerard’s words came back to her, his argument. How many would die because he wasn’t there to fight?

  Mercy! How many would die because she wasn’t there to fight? She could still remember the angry face of the one man she’d fought and killed while her life’s blood seeped from her wound. How many others would he have gone on to kill had she not stopped him?

  Heaven help her! She had to go! Finally, finally, she understood what compelled her brother and the rest. Of cou
rse they had to go. Of course they had to fight. Even knowing what would happen—the mud, the frustration, the suffering, the inhumanity—she had not the luxury of sitting by while others fought for Scotland—no—for each other!

  “I will fight for my brothers,” she told the stranger, and as she followed the man out the rear door and crawled beneath an oiled tarp, she prayed he was a Jacobite…

  ~

  Travelling was slow as the cart she’d climbed into was pulled by a pair of oxen. It was slightly torturous because of the combination of smells emanating from the four men beneath the tarp with her. The tarp was tied across the top with rope, but thankfully, a bit of slack at the edge invited a tiny but cool breeze toward her face. Thanks to her warm clothes and warmer companions, the small draft didn’t chill her as it would have otherwise.

  The road was rough, but no one complained. The drover had to wind his way past road blocks on the main thoroughfares. From a distance, in the dark, it was simply too difficult to tell which side held the roads. And if they were stopped by the Red Coats, she knew all too well what would happen. If not a rushed firing squad, then imprisonment for her fellows at least. When a charge of treason was involved, there would be no rules of conduct for the victors. Indeed, the order of the day would be no quarter given.

  Amazingly enough, Nessa was able to sleep a bit during the trek to the battlefield. With her newfound understanding, she felt a sense of peace that had eluded her since the first time Jacky had left home. It was the only explanation she had for the quality of rest she’d enjoyed.

  Quality rest, in the back of a bumpy cart, with a bunch of smelly men, on the way to their deaths.

  Unfathomable.

  All intentions of taking her place on the moor were suddenly made impossible when she found herself standing in an unfamiliar field. Her stomach sank. They hadn’t been Jacobites at all. They’d been luring sympathizers away from the fighting!

  She accosted the drover as he turned his oxen around on the road. “This is not Drumossie Moor.”

  “Drumossie? Nay. A mile further north. But this is where I was ordered to bring ye, and no further. My animals are worn to the bone. Give off.” He pulled his shirt out of her grasp and gave his oxen a tap with his whip. At a faster pace than they’d moved previously, the animals pulled the cart away, into the darkness.

  Without the aid of a lantern, they’d come, which meant the man had known the way well enough to travel it blind. So it stood to reason he knew precisely where Drumossie Moor lay.

  “Where is the rest of the army?” asked one of her fellows.

  How could I have forgotten? They’ve gone on the night raid!

  But even if they had, Ross wouldn’t have arrived early enough to join them. So where was he?

  “Shall we head north?” Since men wouldn’t appreciate orders from a younger lad, she posed it as a question, then prayed they’d agree.

  “Unless ye plan to do more than pick yer teeth, laddie,” a man said. “Of course we go north.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  They trekked for less than an hour, staying close to the road, but not on it, for fear they’d be easy targets for some confused soldier from either side. Eventually, the ground became familiar and she knew they’d arrived. Before she had to make some excuse for stopping where she did, they came upon a larger party and were welcomed and ordered to wait.

  She might not have been able to smell a thing after she’d risen from her grave, but she clearly remembered the smell of the moor beforehand. They couldn’t be far.

  She laughed, feeling like a horse that suddenly turned her head for home again. She was eager to see it, to be reminded of how it had looked so long ago. Before the Great Visitor’s Center. Before the memorial cairn. Before the houses encroached upon sacred ground.

  Word spread of the raiding party that had gone off into the night to catch the enemy by surprise. The soldiers gathered around her believed they were waiting for word of yet another Jacobite victory. Surely, it would be the final straw and George and his royal get would flee to Europe while they all paraded south.

  She bit her tongue and moved amongst them, hoping for a glimpse of Gerard Ross. But there were too many men huddled together in the darkness, trying to keep warm. He could be any one of a hundred dark forms. So she leaned against a tree, closed her eyes, and hoped to hear his voice.

  She woke in the eerie light before dawn to see a large, brow-beaten party of Highlanders returning from the failed raid. The welcoming party was speechless when they learned that instead of a victory parade, they would be meeting Cumberland’s army head on. A few grumbled about the numbers and the odds. Others made fools of the worriers. Nessa had nothing but pity for them all. She kept an eye out for her brother, but didn’t see him. She didn’t worry, however, because she knew just where he would stand when the fighting started.

  And where she would stand as well. From there, she would be able to find Gerard Ross.

  The battle aside, she knew what would follow for the next three centuries. Ross would be known as Number 57, and she as Kennedy, Number 55. He would suspect she haunted the moor for a reason different than the others. He wouldn’t know she haunted him.

  And when, at last, she gave him her name, he would know her as the vengeful Nessa, not the gentle Assa. If history would repeat itself, she would rather it repeated to the letter. Otherwise, the man might hound her every step on the moor if only to berate her for not returning home as he’d ordered.

  Besides, she’d already kissed the man in the flesh. To be near him for so long and be unable to feel his lips on hers would be unbearable torture.

  Yes. That was an excellent reason to keep herself apart from him. But she finally had to admit it. She didn’t want him to recognize her on the moor because, ultimately, if he didn’t really care for her, two hundred sixty-nine years was a long time to mourn a broken heart.

  As morning drew on, the battlefield was chosen. The assignments were made. Clanranald, who had enjoyed the place of honor at Prestonpans, was now assigned to the left wing of the front line. The Camerons were given the honor of the right. Sadly, it would only be the right wing to reach the enemy lines and engage. The rest would be cut down by artillery while their progress was halted by the moor itself.

  She tried not to remember the rest. It would be hard enough to keep a brave face. It would do her no good to recall every bit of the nightmare to come.

  Out of the corner of her eye, a familiar movement.

  Gerard Ross strode back toward the right flank. She watched him for only a heartbeat or two before he was lost in the sea of Highlanders between them. But no matter. He would be back.

  She made her way along the rear of the line to MacDonell of Keppoch’s regiment. There, she held back, not wanting to let her kin recognize her for a while yet. She needed everything to happen as it had that day.

  As in the past, she was sent on an errand to fetch water. Over and over again, she returned to the small spring that would later be known as the Well of the Dead.

  Gerard returned to Clanranald’s ranks and joked and laughed with familiar friends. Nessa reveled in the sound of that laughter. After he rose from the dead, his laughter would be more rare, which was a pity, for the sound of it could fairly bring a body back to life again.

  A bugle announced the hour. Noon. It was just about time to make her presence known to her brother.

  Heaven help me. I am no coward.

  Someone bumped into her. “Beg pardon.”

  She nodded, then noted the familiar clothes as the lad walked ahead of her. They were her clothes—or rather, the clothes she’d traded her dress for! Centuries before, as she’d followed after Jacky, she’d gone looking for water and found a deserter hiding in the woods. And since they both needed disguises, she’d traded her dress for his clothes. Luckily for her, he’d been desperate to get away, so she’d been able to dress privately.

  She’d left the long shirt tail hanging down the back—

/>   “No!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Nessa lunged forward, her fingers outstretched to catch the back of the jacket. But her progress was halted by a hand on her shoulder. She glared behind her, recognized the black-clad figure of Wickham, then fought to be free.

  She had to stop…the other her!

  The first things to disintegrate, like grain in the wind, were the tips of her own fingers. Then her hand, her forearm, and soon the entire battlefield before her disappeared while the grip on her shoulder gave her a point of reference.

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to see what lay ahead, heartbroken by all she’d left behind.

  Only yards from Jacky again, she might have told him she understood, might have asked him to forgive her.

  “But Nessa,” Soni said, standing beside her now. “With one more conversation between the pair of ye, history might have been changed. And ye didn’t want that, in the end.”

  Nessa nodded. A sudden wave of exhaustion reminded her she was still in mortal form. She was back at the other Culloden—the one she knew so well. It was night once more. And, standing on the north side of Leanach Cottage, she had no view of the battlefield or the memorial cairns.

  Wickham walked around to stand before her. He lowered his head and gave her a wink, then moved over to the bench and sat.

  Nessa knew what would come next and faced the witch. “I doona care for yer boon, Soncerae.”

  “And well I know it.” The witch wrinkled her nose and Nessa wondered if perhaps she smelled as bad as her fellows in the cart. But the only thing she could sense was the smell of Dunvegan House and fried chicken lingering on her fine, but thread-worn costume.

  “Will I be going on, then?”

  Again, Soni made a face. “Liam McGregor has since been sent from the moor, by the way.”

  She pretended interest. “Oh? And?”

  “And Gerard Ross will be the next.”