by L. L. Muir
Malcolm’s chin jerked up, wondering what caused the man’s panic. Without warning, the rear doors of the white truck exploded outward, releasing a ball of fire that sent shrapnel winging through the air. Malcolm dove for Allison, knocking her to the ground, covering her body with his. Breath he’d not needed in nearly three hundred years left his chest in a harsh whoosh. Screams pierced his ears and the acrid odor of smoke filled his nose, and he was instantly transported to Culloden.
The odor of churned moor rose from the ground. Chains rattled as the government army advanced its artillery. Cries of challenge and death shook the air.
Barking pierced his thoughts and he wondered for a startled moment if Rabby and his dog had returned. Something solid landed on his chest and proceeded to wash his face. He raised an arm in protest.
“Get up! Don’t give up now!”
The voice, fiercely demanding, choked. Soft hands cupped the sides of his face. With a mighty effort, Malcolm opened his eyes and returned to the present, finding himself on his back. Allison bent over him as she tugged on his jacket, peering at him with urgency—and care? Fergus skittered to the side, whining anxiously. Malcolm sat, shaking his head for focus. The heat of the fire from the truck warmed him. They were close—too close.
He scrambled to his feet. “We must get the truck away from the whisky.”
Allison rose more slowly, her gaze on the red staining her hands. “You’re bleeding again.”
Malcolm waved her protest away impatiently. “`Twill be gone in a moment as before. Dinnae fash.”
She looked at him, eyes wide. “No. This time it’s real.”
His attention jerked to his side as the sting of injury blossomed belatedly. A splintered scrap of wood jutted from a tear in his jacket and he eyed it in surprise. “By Saint Andrew’s teeth—that doesnae look good.” He fingered it speculatively. Buried deep, it did not budge, and he grimaced at the flash of pain.
“Don’t touch it! We’ll get you to a hospital,” Allison said.
Malcolm blinked at her. “It cannae hurt me, lass,” he assured her. “And we need to move the truck before it catches the warehouses on fire.”
CHAPTER TEN
Torn between two calamities, Allison nodded once, firming her resolve, though hating the fact he’d been injured on her account. “Then let’s move the truck.” She had to accept Malcolm’s reassurance, and perhaps even the realization that he was, in fact, a ghost. He certainly acted as though the wooden stake protruding from his side was of no consequence, though even seriously injured people could manage miraculous feats under moments of great duress.
He grabbed her arm and took off at a rapid pace toward the truck. She gathered her scattered thoughts and followed, towed along in his wake. The rear doors of the truck hung drunkenly open and flames leapt out, brilliantly orange and red in the deepening gloom.
“How do ye start this thing?” Malcolm called as he jumped into the driver’s seat. He wriggled once then slid back to the ground. Grabbing the wooden spike in his side, he wrenched it loose. Allison stared in horrified shock as he tossed it casually to the ground. “`Twas in my way,” he grunted before climbing back inside the vehicle.
With no time to argue or think on the consequences of his actions, Allison pushed past him and reached beneath the seat. Her fingers pried the floor mat up, searching for the spare key. It was gone.
“Damn! He took the key!” Frustration and anger clogged her throat. Why, oh, why don’t I know how to short-wire a truck?
Then we’ll push it out of the way,” Malcolm grunted as he slipped from his seat.
Allison’s mouth opened to remind him the truck faced away from the building and they could only push it into the warehouses since the rear of the truck was ablaze. Before she could stop him from doing the unthinkable, he vanished into the smoke and flames. “No!” She stared after him in disbelief, frozen to the spot.
Something in her mind spurred her to action and she jumped into the cab and shoved the gears into neutral. Nothing happened for a long, agonizing moment, and then the truck began to move.
Relief bloomed through her, making her heart dance. He was alive! Making sure the truck was headed in the right direction, Allison leapt to the ground and skittered a few steps away. One of the rear doors of the truck was shut against the flames and Malcolm pushed against what had to have been white-hot metal. His head drooped between his shoulders, back arched, his legs, corded with straining muscle, showing from beneath his kilt. With a mighty shove he sent the truck down a small incline, rear doors flapping wildly, away from the warehouses full of precious whisky.
As the truck lurched to a stop against a large pile of rubbish, Malcolm slammed the rear doors shut. He brushed his hands together and strode toward the warehouse, and Allison braced herself to examine what must be horrific burns. She hurried to his side, all but dragging him down an alley between two buildings, to a place of relative safety should the truck explode again.
“Let me see your hands. You should not have done something so foolish.” Her heartbeat tripled its rate as she thought of him injured. Beyond the desire to heal, she didn’t understand why it mattered to her so much. She’d treated patients before with severe wounds and felt little more than compassion and a professional detachment. Odd that a self-proclaimed Scottish ghost would prove different.
He allowed her to inspect his hands. “Lass, `tis about time ye understood I truly am a ghost. `Tis my jacket, not my hands, that dinnae fare so well.”
She dragged her astonished gaze from his unscarred palms to his coat where tiny puffs of smoke issued from the charred cuffs. “You knew the fire wouldn’t hurt you?”
His face twisted with uncertainty. “I dinnae think it would. For all my blustering about being a ghost and unable to be harmed further, I dinnae truly know.” He shrugged. “Until the wood spike. It dinnae hurt—weel, nae much—and I’d already cost ye time when I slipped into my memories. I had to try.”
Allison’s gaze slid to the truck, now several safe yards away, the fire in the cargo space apparently contained, hopefully dying. “You risked your life to save the whisky?”
“As a Scotsman, I’d gladly say aye, and a noble cause at that,” he teased her gently. “But as yer friend, I say I would risk my life to save yers if I truly had a life to give.” He nodded to the warehouses around them, bathed in a dancing orange glow. “This represents yer future. They would have burned quickly and likely sent flaming barrels down the hill to the distillery. Every distiller’s nightmare.”
She nodded, still numb from the thought of what he’d risked. Smoke inhalation, devastating burns, certain death—again. And in her heart she began to believe. Sorrow washed over her. The feelings she’d had of friendship—no, closer than that—would amount to nothing. And it grieved her.
“Thank you. It sounds completely inadequate, but thank you.”
“Och. Ye already knew I dinnae fear fire.” His grin was genuine, but his eyes remained clouded.
“I’ve seen you smile, but I’ve never heard you laugh,” she mused. To her dismay, his smile disappeared.
“I have nae mirth left in me, lass. Only the memories.”
“And they haunt you more than you haunted the moor?”
He quirked an eyebrow at her and half his smile returned. “Well put. Eternal rest is the best answer. May it be peaceful if I am successful here.”
“No! There are ways to help you. Even Fergus …” She glanced about her for the Westie, but didn’t see him.
“Whether my quest is finished or not, I only had a day’s time to complete it.” He sighed. “Soni will be for me soon.”
Allison reached for his hands again. “We will get her to let you stay. You should experience life, laugh again.” Her gaze slid to his. “Perhaps love.”
His eyes rounded, wistful. “I dinnae deserve all that, lass, much as I would like it. Only my final reckoning, which I dinnae look forward to.”
“You are kind,” she argu
ed. “Do not believe the things your dark thoughts tell you. As a soldier, you followed orders. You did what you could. There is nothing to regret.”
“Nae. `Tis not about what I did. `Tis about what I dinnae do. And that I regret verra much.”
His eyes darkened and Allison feared she was losing him again. She gripped his arms, giving him a shake. “Do not give in! Your heart is so kind.” Tears burned her eyes. And I care so much.
“My friends were herded into the loch like so much cattle,” he murmured. “Drowned as though their lives meant nothing. I could have saved them, but I did nothing.”
“You could not have saved them,” she stated firmly. “And you survived. They would have killed you, too. Is that what you wanted?”
His tortured gaze broke Allison’s heart. “Aye. I should have died with them.”
She pulled him unresistingly against her chest, wrapping her arms about him. She held him tight, thrilling to the way he filled her arms, the way his warmth soaked into her bones—her heart. He straightened, reversing their positions so that she cuddled against his chest, his arms holding her close. His heartbeat thudded gently beneath her ear, proof that for the time, at least, he was alive. The faint odor of smoke mingled with a manly scent filled her nostrils and she breathed deeply.
She warmed to the sensation of being in his arms. It was perfect. Except—she tilted her face up, seeking his lips with hers. She found them, warm and chiseled and firm, but they softened quickly at her touch. A small groan rumbled in his chest and he slid his mouth to her ear, his breath tickling her skin. She flinched and his lips reclaimed hers—moving gently, as though he sought to memorize their shape.
He broke the contact, leaning his forehead against hers, his eyes searching her face.
“Yer eyes are the color of springtime, and yer hair is so red, I almost am afraid to touch it.”
“It might burn you?” she asked, intrigued he would think so.
He lifted the curled ends of her shoulder-length bob, letting the strands trickle through his fingers. “Aye. Though `tis my heart, not my hands, that feel the flames.”
He kissed her again, his lips as light as a sigh.
Fergus’ barking pulled them apart. Cool air replaced the warmth of Malcolm’s arms. “Fergus!” she called. “Come here!”
The little dog raced to her and she gathered him up, grateful he hadn’t been hurt in the blast. “Stop straying off,” she chided as she set him on the ground. “And thanks for taking care of the Scotsman,” she whispered into his furry ear.
Straightening, she faced Malcolm. “I need to call security. Even if the truck is no longer a danger, it must be checked and I need to file a report for insurance.”
“I will look into the buildings,” Malcolm said.
“Don’t bother. We’ll just check the locks while we wait. I don’t know where Sandy went and we don’t need to let him get the drop on us if he’s still around.” She dug into her pocket for her cell phone, staring at it with a frown.
“Rats. No signal. These things are useless up here.” She shoved it back in her pocket and held up the empty pouch she’d clipped on her belt earlier. “Must have lost the walkie-talkie in the leaves near the springs. Let’s use the phone in the break room. The men have a small building for eating and such. There’s a phone in there.”
They strolled to the far side of the warehouses to a much smaller building with a single, man-sized door. The entry stood ajar. A flash of unease washed over her. She stepped inside, but one glance at the phone, its cord hanging free from the receiver, told her it was useless.
“Well, I guess we’ll just go get help ourselves,” she sighed. Making their way to the ATV, she pushed the starter button and Malcolm and Fergus wedged inside once again. The Westie sat upright in Malcolm’s lap, appearing to enjoy Malcolm’s steadying hand on his flank. It gave Allison strength in this day of troubles and disappointments, to have the Scotsman at her side. And her heart smiled.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The cool breath of evening filled Malcolm’s chest. It was the heady feel of freedom, and for the first time in nearly three centuries, he noticed the wink of stars as, one-by-one, they took their place in the velvet sky. Already the moon rose high above the trees, casting a pure white light on the narrow road as Allison guided the ATV skillfully down the hill.
As they exited the trees for the cleared area around the distillery and crossed the dam next to the lake, the sky flashed yellow and orange behind them with a loud clap of sound. Allison brought the vehicle to a screeching stop, skidding it off the road as she wrenched the wheel, facing the ATV the way they’d come.
Fire lit the hillside, careening off trees, shooting into the air as it bounced over boulders. In an instant he realized the flaming barrels tumbling down were headed straight for them.
“Go!” he shouted, but Allison had stepped from the ATV, hands clenched at her sides, rigid with anger or fear, he couldn’t tell. “Get in!” he commanded, his voice harsh.
“No!” she breathed, the word full of anguish, not argument.
Fergus jumped to the rear of the vehicle with an excited bark as Malcolm climbed out. “Get us out of here,” Malcolm shouted as he grabbed Allison’s arm, giving her a brief shake.
“Sandy fired the warehouses anyway,” she flung at him.
“Aye. And we must stop him. Get in! We can do nothing from here, and we’d be less than worthless on that hill. We must get help.”
She shot him one last defiant look then strode toward the ATV. Two steps away, something crashed into her shoulder and she plummeted into the dark, cold lake.
Malcolm careened around the corner of the vehicle, gripping the metal roll bar for balance. He halted in a scramble of rocks and debris at the edge of the almost non-existent shoulder of the road. Confusion rolled over him as the ghosts of men he’d once known sailed down the hill. His heart clenched as the first ones entered the water, their cries sizzling on the night air.
“No!” Shots splattered the surface, forcing the men in Malcolm’s tortured memory beneath the water to their deaths. Bullets slid through the water with a sinister hiss, leaving twisting plumes of smoke in their wake.
Fergus nudged his furry head beneath Malcolm’s hand and he began to stroke the wiry fur. His breathing evened, his vision cleared. The ghosts disappeared, becoming barrels of burning whisky bounding down the hill and into the lake. Some, broken against boulders, sent fiery brands into the water, hissing as they made contact. Smoke spiraled from the surface. The lake glowed as though lit from within.
Allison’s head, her red hair a dark stain on the water, bobbed close to the debris.
Come on, lass. Climb out.
Allison did not respond to his silent plea. A barrel burst overhead, spraying whisky. His dread grew. In an instant she could be engulfed in flames.
I cannae enter the water again. Even as he voiced his fear, he quickly unwrapped his leggings and stepped out of his boots, tossing his jacket to the ground. A deep breath, then two as the icy touch of sheer terror washed over him. Fergus licked his hand, crooning encouragingly.
Squaring his shoulders, Malcolm dove into the lake, barely noting the chill as the water closed over his head. He surfaced, finding himself only a few feet from Allison’s still body. Flaming barrels bobbed closer, adding heat to the water as they approached. With strong strokes, he swam to her side. He pulled her against him and began the trek to shore, away from the whisky that now burned on the surface of the water, spreading eagerly outward.
The bank was sloped, but the bottom of the lake dropped off sharply at the water line. With a bit of difficulty, he shoved Allison onto the bank, clear of the burning lake and far enough to ensure she did not slip back into the water. He floated, treading water, as he searched the bank for an easier way out.
Something crashed into his skull, the force sending him deep under water. He gulped a mouthful of lake water in surprise and immediately choked. He struggled upward, toward the
leaping, flaming light, but a barrel passed overhead obscuring his line of sight. Then another. And another, blocking his way out. He pushed at the barrel, but it bumped into another, refusing to give way. Kicking his feet, he slid through the water beneath the barrels, searching for an opening. His vision dimmed and his movements slowed, his arms and legs cumbersome. Panic rose and fell in his chest. Ghost or not, this time he would drown.
Allison retched a bellyful of lake water onto the damp earth beside her. Fingers curved into claws, she pulled herself up the bank, fiery heat at her back. Her hands touched crumbling asphalt and she halted, exhausted. Sirens split the air, shouts rose from the distillery, barrels cracked open with exploding force. The tang of whisky and smoke—normally two of her favorite smells—choked the very life from the air.
This must be what war is like. She jerked to attention. Malcolm! Pulling herself to her elbows, she scanned the area, searching for the Scotsman, the flap of a kilt, the broad shoulders, anything that would point her to him. Had he pulled her from the lake? Deep water was his greatest fear since almost drowning nearly three hundred years ago—was that what was meant by facing his fears? Had he survived the test?
She turned to the lake. Barrels bobbed on the surface, some burning brightly, others doused or nearly so. Their various depths indicated the amount of whisky each held. Flames licked across the water, illuminating the surface, but the barrels cast deep shadows, confusing the eye.
“Malcolm!” Her voice, hoarse and weak, couldn’t possibly have carried far. She dragged herself to her feet, pausing once as a wave of nausea swept over her.
White and red lights ripped through the night and a fire truck’s scream reverberated in the hills. Headlights blinded her and she slipped a couple of steps back down the bank, catching herself with her hands on the soft soil. She flinched as the truck rushed past, barely missing the ATV sitting at a drunken angle on the side of the road, its wheels in the mud. Two more fire trucks, followed by a pickup crammed to overflowing with men in the back, drove by. Tail lights flashed then vanished around the bend.