Ghosts of Culloden Moor 24 - The Bugler

by L. L. Muir

  He’d been such a fool. A young fool. But he was no longer that lad, so he wouldn’t waste his wish on apologies that no longer applied to him.

  He looked deep into his own heart and tried to be as honest with himself as he’d been with the Highlanders, when he’d admitted to fighting for Cumberland.

  What do I want? What would I have wished for, had I been living?

  Of course he knew…

  “What do ye long for, Morey Fraser? Speak it aloud.” The young witch paced in circles around him, waiting, waiting. Those large dark eyes flashed to his. “What is it ye want, Bugler? More than anything.”

  “Love,” he blurted, then dipped his head, embarrassed. “Are ye happy? I wish to be loved and perhaps love in return. To feel it. To know it. To never wonder…”

  “If you were capable of it?”

  He shook his head and looked into her fathomless eyes, baring his soul to her in the doing. “To know…if I was…unloveable.”

  The witch’s lower lip quivered once before she grabbed his ghostly head and pulled it down to her, a feat he couldn’t imagine possible. But he felt her lips on his skin again, slightly right of center, as she’d done so long ago. He didn’t want her pity, but before he could tell her, it was over.

  “Done,” she said, her breath whispering across his skin as no breeze, no wind had been able to do for centuries. “Ye’ve spent yer wish, Morey. Only ye must give me a day or two to see to things.”

  “Auch, lassie. What is a day or two to me?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Soni got off the train at Waverley Station and made the short trek over the bridge and up the Royal Mile to Cockburn Street. She’d come to her great-aunts’ tea shop for help many times already, and the pair wouldn’t mind helping her again. Only this time, they might not like her request, or her reason for asking…

  Her feet knew the way, and as she came around the curve, the sight of the teacups and saucers hanging in the window was an unconscious signal to relax. It was like coming home.

  She reached for the door and smiled at the message painted there. Rent a cup. The tea is free. The clank of the bell sounded overhead as she pushed the door open. She closed it quietly and stood still, to test the beloved proprietors.

  “Don’t be clever, Soni dear.” The voice came from beyond the thick curtains that separated the tea room from the foyer. “Come in. Come in.”

  Soni parted the velvet and entered the inner sanctum. Lorraine and Loretta, a matching pair who looked just half their age of eighty-something, sat at the back table on the left side, closest to the kitchen. Three mis-matched teacups waited along with a silver kettle and service on a platter.

  Lorraine touched the side of the pot, then shook her hand. “Kettle’s hot. Shall I pour?”

  Soni nodded, slid her pack off her shoulder and onto the floor beside the wall, unwound her scarf, and laid it on top.

  “We don’t like it when we can’t read your thoughts,” Loretta said with a frown.

  Soni scoffed and pointed to the third cup. “Ye knew I was coming…”

  The woman shook her head. “Not the same at all.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t kill ye to be surprised every once in a while. Ye might even like it.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Loretta said in her best pirate impression.

  Having lived a long time in the States, her aunts’ Scottish accents came and went—much like their age seemed to do. Sometimes, they appeared old and weary. Other times, after a visit from Wickham, they seemed young and lively again. And given his mastery of Time itself, she suspected her great-uncle had given his sisters an unworldly face-lift or two.

  Soni had made the comment once, that Wickham and his wife didn’t look thirty years old, when she knew her great-uncle had to be in his seventies. Then she’d asked Loretta, flat out, if he had found a way to take off the years.

  “You have it backward,” her aunt replied. “Wickham never aged in the first place.”

  Sitting in the tea room, summoning her courage, Soni looked up to find Lorraine staring at her over the rim of her cup. She tried not to feel defensive, but only a fool would let down their guard with her great-aunts in the room. At least Soni was their own, however, and knew they put her protection above all else. So, although she was curious, she had nothing to worry over—unless they decided not to help her this time.

  “She thinks we might not help her,” Lorraine told her sister, as if Soni wasn’t sitting right there between them.

  “Maybe it’s dangerous,” Loretta said. She widened her eyes, then giggled. The Muir sisters, with their strong powers of precognition, had little to worry over as well.

  There was no sense beating around the bush. Others were waiting on her, after all. So Soni got to the point.

  “I need to speak to the dead.”

  Loretta narrowed her eyes. “And?”

  “And… I must speak with…with…Simon the Fox.” She said the name quickly, as if it had power to coil around and sink its fangs into her. Which, knowing how her great-aunts felt about the man, was understandable. In the eighteenth century, Simon Fraser had hanged one of two Muir sisters as a witch. The other sister had taken her own life.

  Soni’s aunts shared a look that might have made other folks nervous. But it gave Soni hope. They weren’t repulsed by the idea of calling up Simon the Fox, they were excited by it.

  “We’ll need others to hold him tight,” said Loretta.

  Lorraine grinned. “To force him to cooperate.”

  “What about Jillian and Jules?”

  Lorraine shook her head. “One or the both of them is always pregnant.”

  The other aunt pursed her lips. “What is the name of this ghostie? I thought there was only one Fraser among them, and he’s already been removed.”

  Soni bit her lip and heaved the sigh of a weary old woman, hoping it might soften the ladies up a bit.

  Lorraine cocked her head. “Confess!”

  “Fine!” Soni tried to remember just how she’d rehearsed it on the train. “His name is Morey Fraser, a bugler. Lord Lovat sent him to the Duke of Argyll—”

  Both sisters jumped to their feet, the scrape of their chairs on the plaid carpet cut off the rest of what she’d planned to say.

  Loretta pointed a finger in her face. “You promised—”

  “Gave your word!” Lorraine rolled her eyes, then closed them.”

  “That all 79 were Jacobites—”

  “You swore you wouldn’t ask for more—”

  “And now, you want to sacrifice—”

  “But there is nothing left to sacrifice!”

  Soni’s head sunk between her hands with every word, and offered a quiet excuse. “The 79 have forgiven him.”

  Someone grunted above her head. “What difference does that make?”

  She looked up to find both aunts waiting with hands on hips. Everything they’d said was true. She really couldn’t argue but…she had to. For Morey, who had stood by for three centuries, just in case he was needed.

  She dared smile a little. “Because, aunties, if they can forgive him, for being on the wrong side of the war, then everyone else should forgive him too, don’t ye think?”

  Lorraine shook her head. “You cannot bring this man back to life.”

  “No. No, I can’t. I understand that. But I granted him a wish…”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Thankfully, Soni’s aunts were suckers for fairy tales. They believed that every life should culminate in a fairy tale, and they spent their own lives trying to make that happen for as many people as possible. So it was no wonder they hummed happily as Wickham drove Soni and them northwest to Loch Mhòr that evening, a place Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, wouldn’t resist visiting.

  Summoning his spirit, while standing on the shore in the darkness, turned out to be difficult at first. But when could transactions with Simon the Fox have been easy?

  “Simon Fraser!” Lorraine’s shout demonstrated that eve
n a patient witch had her limits. “You probably made the devil himself pull out his horns dealing with the likes of you!”

  “Come, now, my lovely.” The man finally appeared just a few feet from the water’s edge, looking far too interested in her aunt for Soni’s comfort. With bright eyes and a lurid grin across his face, he rubbed his hands together. The gray lace swung wildly from his even grayer sleeves as he headed for her. “I’ll play nice if ye will, aye?”

  Lorraine held up a hand. He stopped moving, but the leering continued. By the time he noticed, he’d been bound by the glowing green confinement of a hundred Muirs. And every few seconds, a clawed hand would separate itself from the light and grab for him. After avoiding a dozen such swipes, Simon Fraser finally stood perfectly still in the center of the vortex, spine straight, hands to his sides, all his lewd intentions forgotten.

  “What is it ye want from me?” he demanded. “Ask it and go.”

  Loretta strode around him while Lorraine concentrated on maintaining the rotation of power. If either of them, or Soni, waved a hand, Wickham would get out of the car and come to their aid. But they doubted The Fox would appear with a man about. Seemingly weak women proved to be the best bait.

  “Remember, if you will,” Loretta said, “a young bugler you sent to appease the Duke of Argyll.”

  Lovat snorted. “I was always more clever than anyone kenned—”

  “The boy,” she snapped. “Remember the boy. When did you first learn of him? What of his parents? Remember all you know about the boy…”

  Half and hour later, sad and weary, the three of them climbed back in the car.

  Wickham turned the engine over. “Where to?”

  “Beaufort,” the three of them said in unison.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Morey woke to a quiet summons in a decidedly female voice, something that had never happened before.

  He rose to find the gloaming had come to the battlefield once again. The young witch’s silhouette, next to a Government flag, stood out clearly against the orange and purple of the sunset. The wind teased her hair and beckoned him.

  None of the others stirred except for Captain McLaren, who sat in his usual place and watched. The intensity on the lass’ face as she returned the Highlander’s stare made Morey reluctant to interrupt.

  “Bugler,” she said, then turned to face him.

  “Lass?”

  “Call me Soni,” she said. “Everyone does.”

  “Soni. I worried I’d dreamt ye.”

  “But ye’ve seen me twice before.”

  He shrugged. “I worried they’d all been dreams.”

  “Ah.” She bit her lip and stared at the ground at his feet for a long moment. Finally, she spoke. “I found a way to grant yer wish. I only hope…” She shook her head. “I wish… Well, I’ll just say I’ll see ye in the morning. After.”

  Morey didn’t understand. “After what?”

  Soni tilted her head to the side and began walking backward, hands open and empty. Whatever secrets she had, she apparently intended to keep.

  Lightning struck the peak of the Visitor’s Center with thunder crashing almost immediately. Clouds shouldered together to block out the glow of the setting sun. The fine remnants of mist swirled and then scattered like the dance of wispy skirts, and the moor was suddenly inky black.

  Morey lifted his hand before him, but he couldn’t see it. The wind teased at his hair, reminding him what it used to be like to be substantial enough to force the elements to detour around him.

  Had the lass lied? Had she brought him back to life as she claimed to have done for the missing Highlanders?

  Brilliant stars appeared in a straight line and grew increasingly bright. His eyes adjusted too slowly and he had to shield his face. When he finally lowered his arm, he stood before the steps before Beaufort Castle. The stars were now hot torches, high on the battlements.

  Home? How had the lass managed the feat when so many times he’d tried and failed to leave Culloden? Before he ever reached the end of the battle lines, his thoughts would fly away and he’d settle back into his bed. Eventually, he’d understood—he’d bound himself to the 79 and so would never leave until the last of them had gone.

  But whatever magic had created that bond, the lass had found a way to break it! At least for that night.

  ~

  The castle Morey stood before was anything but contemporary. The trappings and carriages were from former times, from when he’d been a boy there, perhaps even earlier—for he never remembered the Fraser footmen sporting white wigs!

  After so many years on a quiet moor, Morey had to cover his ears to hide from the rattle and clopping of another carriage-and-four arriving and two more in its wake. When the footmen rushed down the steps, he rushed up them, eager to get inside and see what the witch had in store for him. He came to a halt just inside the great hall.

  Heaven help him, they were holding a ball! At Beaufort!

  At least two dozen young lasses graced the edges of the hall stripped of every piece of furniture for the sake of dancing. A small orchestra played from above. Rows of ladies and gentlemen in fancy dress danced in proper course with older generations looking on.

  What had Soni been planning? An evening with Cinderella herself?

  His stomach turned at the thought. Was he capable of wooing and winning a lass’ affection in an evening? Aye, he was. He’d done so a hundred times at least. But it wasn’t his wish to do so again!

  Oh, what a fool he’d been to hope in vain!

  What would a young witch—not twenty years old, surely—what would she know of real love? Her own understanding would be little more than his own had been. The nineteen-year-old-Morey would have made merry all night. The Morey that arrived at Inveraray would have spent the evening interrupting kisses in the moonlight, protecting the sheep from the wolves.

  But what of the 289-year-old-Morey?

  Since he could not possibly fall in love, nor could a lass truly fall in love with him in such a short time, he might try to make the best of it. Holding a lass’s hand in a country dance would be a welcome change from having only a bugle to hold. Smiling eyes, gentle touches, an exchange of whispers. He supposed they couldn’t hurt.

  The tune ended with a flourish and the dancers broke out in applause and hurrahs. Morey couldn’t take the noise. At the very least, it was excuse enough to storm through the throng and head for the rear entrance. He would hide for the night. In the morning, when the witch summoned him again, he would thank her for a lovely evening and find his deathbed. She need never ken that her Cinderella evening was so far off the mark.

  True love simply cannot be found in a matter of hours!

  With his thoughts ranting around in his head, his feet found their own familiar way through the yard and beyond. Up the road he went, up the road he’d trod thousands of times, and straight to the door of his old home. It stood to reason that, since the place looked just as it had in his childhood, albeit a wee smaller, it could be his again for the night.

  In truth, the bench his father had made looked newer than ever. Perhaps a fresh coat of whitewash had been applied. And if anyone found him inside the house, he could point to the bench and say, “My father made that bench. I thought it only logical that this would be his house.” And if they kicked him out, he would sleep in the barn until the cock’s crow.

  He pulled the loop and the door offered no resistance. No fire burned in the hearth. No candle. He let his body remember the way and reached out to find the flint box, just where he hoped it would be.

  The candle’s wick caught and the wee flame revealed the house, his house. Every detail magically restored.

  “Oh, Soni,” he breathed. “Forgive me for doubting ye. True love or no, ye are a great witch indeed.”

  The table and chairs looked a bit lower to the ground than they should have been, but covered with the same marks he remembered. How the witch had looked into his mind and found those details, he c
ould not imagine.

  The ladder to the loft felt familiar to his hands, the distance between the rungs were precisely what they should have been. His feet tested each one as he climbed up to Heaven. And when Morey collapsed on his old bed, his form fit as snugly into the pocket as it seemed to fit into his grave.

  A sobering thought, that.

  But for the moment, he was home again, and the sense of comfort sank deep into his soul. The scent of the place suddenly registered as if his nose were alive once more. With his ears still sensitive from the noises at the castle, he easily heard the tune being hummed from the main room below. If anyone had come through the door, he hadn’t noticed.

  The tune was nearly as familiar to him as his bed, but he couldn’t place it. If it was something his grandsire had played, the memory had faded over the centuries. Each note of it had a strange effect on him. When the humming woman began singing the words, his ghostly heart pounded like a kettle drum.

  “Who doth I love?

  A laddie doth I love.

  And who loveth me?

  My laddie.”

  She resumed her humming. The sound moved back and forth a few times and then muffled when she entered the chamber below.

  Morey rolled off the bed and flattened himself against the boards, hoping to catch a glimpse of her through a crack in the floor, but she moved too quickly and was suddenly out in the main room again.

  “Do you ken when I first loved ye, Morey Fraser?”

  He froze. Had she watched him come inside? Or had she been inside all the while, waiting for him. Either way, he didn’t appreciate being played the fool. And he refused to go below and play her game.

  Let her wonder if I am still here.

  “Morey, my love…” More singing than speaking. “I loved ye well ‘ere I ever kenned yer face. And now that I’ve seen ye, I’m smitten for eternity. My heart fills more with each passing hour, I swear it. And by tomorrow, I’m certain it will burst!”