by L. L. Muir
A ghost from the future, then?
There was no more time to worry over it. And no alternative but to bully the lass and laddies until they agreed to obey him.
He got to his feet. “Pack yer things. We go now.”
Clyde’s eyes widened. “Our things?”
Hamish gestured about the cavern. “Whatever ye keep close to ye. A blanket? Something with sentiment? Ye ken?”
The older lad nodded, then pointed to a small alcove in the stone wall. In the center rested a familiar wee pie with a nibble missing on one side.
“Why did ye not eat it, then? Ye must be half-starved.”
The lads looked at their sister. She shrugged her shoulder. “We’d nearly forgotten.”
“Well, eat it now and let us be off.”
“Nay!” The three sprung together to stand between himself and their treasure. “We must wait,” said Clyde. “We may never see another.”
If it was the last thing he accomplished on this earth, Hamish would see the trio well and truly fed. He could relate to their desire to savor the thing, for hadn’t he hidden it in his sporran for the very same reason? But he would be damned if he would let them believe they might never see a pie again.
“Verra well. Pack it up. Once we find shelter for the night, ye may eat it in peace.” He pulled the lass aside while the lads wrapped the pie in cloth. “Do ye ken where yer parents are?”
The lass gave her head a fierce shake. “Dead.”
Hamish nodded and put his hands on his hips to prevent himself from offering pity, for pity would not help him get them down the hillside. “I thought as much. So, ye have nothing, then? No remembrances of them?”
The lass bit her lips together and gave her head another shake.
“Nothing amiss with traveling light, lass. Let’s be off, then.” He moved to the earthen stairs and paused. “I will have yer vows that ye will not run from me.”
The two older ones exchanged a smirk.
“I mean it. Ye have just admitted ye have nothing left but yer word, yer honor. I will have ye promise that ye will stay with me and heed my counsel, until we are forced to part ways. Do I have it?”
They hung their heads for a moment, and after the lass agreed, her brothers followed suit.
“If the Redcoats—if anyone comes upon us, I promise to keep them occupied so ye might get away. Stay together if ye can. But if that is not possible, ye must come back here, or go to the old woman’s cottage down the way. Be wary, children. There might be soldiers inside it, so watch from the trees. I will meet ye there if I can.”
“And if they murder ye?” The lad’s question held no emotion. It was a possibility they must have faced every day.
“If I’m dead, I would have ye go to the castle on the shores of Loch Faskally. Do ye ken it?”
Lippa nodded.
“Throw yerself on the mercy of the Widow Moulin who lives there. Tell her that Willa Farquharson’s brother sent ye to her, that I would have her help ye for Willa’s sake.”
“Willa’s brother?” She exchanged tender expressions with her brothers, then faced him again. “We will do as ye ask. We will not run. And we’ll find this widow if we must.”
Hamish’s sister was invited to play often for the widow, and even if the woman had been forced to declare herself for the government, she would not easily forget her favorite Jacobite violinist.
He reached for the trap door and noticed small white scratches in the rock to his right. “What are these, then?”
The young lad pointed to the first row. “These are the days we have lived here.”
At a glance, Hamish estimated the three had been hiding in their hole for the better part of a year! He pointed to a smaller set of marks. “And these?”
“The number of Redcoats we’ve sent to the devil.”
The lass showed him the sling of cloth in which she placed a large stone, then she demonstrated how she could swing it up and around to come down upon a man’s head with much more force that she could manage on her own.
Her brothers beamed with pride.
Hamish counted the marks. Eight men. He was lucky, truly, that he’d been able to walk away at all. But he certainly couldn’t fault the girl for it. She’d defended her wee family for nigh on a year, and done better than most full-grown women might have done.
He had a new respect for these children, but he also thought it prudent not to upset them overmuch. He glanced down at the wee’un who looked at the door with both fear and determination in his eyes. And he, all of four years old.
What ye need is a Muir witch to take up yer cause, he thought.
Then he realized…one already had.
CHAPTER NINE
Except for the strange, low cloud, Sam had enjoyed a clear, blue sky all afternoon. But the humidity in the air—mixed with an evening breeze and the taste of pine needles—created a chill that even a girl from Chicago had to notice. So, she wasn’t embarrassed at all when she decided to cry uncle and put her violin away.
She was disappointed that no ghosts had come to see who was playing. She didn’t necessarily want to see those three little demons who lured Redcoats off the edges of cliffs, but she’d been hoping that Willa might show up, maybe play a little for her.
Who was she kidding? She was disappointed because the Highlander hadn’t appeared again. In fact, she’d had a hard time imagining anything else while she’d played a long list of Celtic songs.
“I think I need a dog,” she said aloud. “I can’t be hiking around with dangerous ghosts—no, ghosties.” She smiled at the endearment, though the three children sounded anything but darling.
It was a sad story, all right, and one she wished wasn’t true. But she wasn’t in the land of milk and honey anymore, and Scottish history was hardly a series of fairy tales.
The day wasn’t a total loss. She’d proven she had the backbone to stick around, even after she’d had an encounter with one of the spirits that haunted her mountain. She’d even gotten used to the idea that it was her mountain. She was digging in!
And she’d discovered what it was like to play her music for the world, within reaching distance of Heaven, instead of letting her talents bounce around a music chamber to make an impression on an ever-shrinking audience.
If they didn’t start putting the arts back into schools, she might be part of the last generations of real musicians. One day, every sound would be digitized and no one would need a real violin anymore.
No. She was in Scotland now. No longer a violinist, she was a fiddle player. She did it for love now, not money. The pressure was off.
She snapped the case shut, but left the little knife in her pocket. Just because she wasn’t freaking out anymore didn’t mean she was stupid. In fact, she was pretty impressed with herself. When the Highlander had appeared, she hadn’t dropped the violin or bow. She hadn’t even peed her pants, which would have totally been understandable.
He’d been real. He’d been standing right over there, close to the mound. She hadn’t imagined him—couldn’t have imagined him. And even if, by some miracle, his fine form had been conjured by her own psyche, she wouldn’t have thought to give him a Scottish brogue.
And, if he’d been pure fantasy, he’d have been trying to get her to come closer instead of summoning a child’s ghost from the ground.
She dropped her gaze to that spot of grass. The idea of those children rising from their graves gave her a chill that was much more effective than a cold blast of wind.
I have to get out of here.
She tore her gaze away and headed for the path that would lead her home, but a gasp made her jump and whip around again. The Highlander was standing about twenty feet away from the spot she’d first seen him. Her fright was dulled a little by the relief that the gasp hadn’t come from three little demons instead.
He held his arms out like he was trying to prove he was harmless, but the two blade handles jutting out of his belt made it clear he was anythin
g but—unless those were just ghosts too.
“Please, lass. Dinna run away. I only wish to speak with ye.” He suddenly frowned and looked behind him. “Nay, ‘tis not my Willa, but the American woman I told ye about. I am certain it was her music we heard, aye? For she carries her fiddle with her even now.” He pointed to her case, like he was proving a point, but Sam had no idea who he was trying to prove that point to.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Who are you talking to?”
He gave her a disappointed look that made her regret the question, then quickly turned to the side, as if speaking to someone behind him. But there was no one there.
“What do ye mean, ye canna see her? She stands just there.” He stepped back to give his imaginary friend a clear view of her and pointed to her feet.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t disappear again.”
He ignored her while he argued with a second imaginary friend. “Do ye mean to say ye canna see her either?”
Whatever response he got only confused him, and he finally looked at Sam’s face. “Please tell me, lass, that ye’re able to see these bairns.”
“Bairns?”
He grunted. “Children. Tell me ye can see these children as plain as ye see me.”
“Children!” She stepped back, wishing she could see them, so she knew to run the opposite way.
“Here, now,” the Highlander chided. “Dinna say ye agree with the old woman of the cottage when she claims that children are a scourge.”
Sam straightened at the insult. “I am not old, sir. Twenty-four is not old!”
He shook his head quickly. “Nay, lassie. I referred to the old woman who lives in the cottage down the way.”
“The Auld Witch House?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “No one said she was a witch.”
“That’s my house.” As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. The last thing she wanted was for the local ghosts to know where to find her. What if they didn’t like Americans? What if they didn’t like her playing?”
The man turned away again, and she noticed how low he spoke, like he was talking to little people. And if he was a ghost, and they were ghosts, it was reasonable to assume they could see each other. But why could they not see her? And vice versa?
Sam decided to get out of there while he wasn’t watching, so she started walking backward again, planning to run the second he noticed.
He noticed.
She ran like Scooby-doo, but she didn’t care. Maybe if she got far enough away from him, he’d disappear again. Maybe, if she ignored him, he’d fade—nope! She heard the heavy thumping of his boots as he chased after her. The adrenaline pumping through her body overflowed and came shooting out her mouth in a full-body scream.
Two huge hands grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her into the air. She had to clutch his arms to keep from tipping forward onto her face, but as soon as her feet were on the ground again, she struggled as much as she could with only one free hand—the violin’s safety came first.
“Wheesht, wheesht,” he said, trying to calm her with the same word the old men had used in the pub the night before. “I’ll not harm ye, lass.”
She scoffed. “No, but they will.”
“Ye mean the children?” He turned her so they were both looking back toward the mound. He bit his lip and made a face. “I can see why ye might think so. They are…resourceful, to say the least. But ye’re no Redcoat. And because they believe that whomever plays the violin does so to help them, so I would wager ye’re safe enough.” He waved the invisible creatures to him. “Come away,” he said. “We’ve only frightened her is all.” He faced her. “I’ll have yer promise ye’ll not run again. They’re frightened enough as it is, and we’ll not have ye drawing attention from more soldiers, aye?”
“Soldiers? You mean there are more ghosts up here?”
He frowned for a second. “Nay, lass. I fear the soldiers are as real as the children. As real as ye and I.”
Her lungs deflated in a whoosh, but she wouldn’t call it a laugh. It was more of a desperate whimper that got out before she could catch it. “You mean the soldiers are as real as those children I can’t see?”
He grimaced. “Aye, but perhaps I spoke too soon. For it seems one of us might not be real after all.” He bit his lip, lifted his eyebrows, and nodded.
It was her that wasn’t real? “You’re saying I’m not real? Are you kidding me?”
CHAPTER TEN
Hamish would have been greatly obliged if a certain Muir witch would pop ‘round and sort them all out, but he could not risk bellowing her name for it might bring the soldiers back up the mountain at a run. So, he simply had to sort it out himself.
First, however, he must get the wee’uns off that mountain. It wasn’t that they weren’t safe up there, for they’d managed to survive a great long while on their own, miracle that it was. His goal was not to drag them closer to the river where plenty of Redcoats might be camped and watching. In fact, he couldn’t quite explain the responsibility he felt for the waifs, but he knew he would never rest in a proper grave until he knew they were settled and safe, under a roof and the protection of accountable adults. And his greatest fear at the moment was that they would run off to yet another hidey hole and be lost to him.
After so long on the mountain, eluding their hunters, they surely had more than one safe haven. Now all he needed to do was convince them they would be happy and safe somewhere else. Somewhere civilized.
The American was little help. Her eyes were a wee bit glazed, and though she hadn’t become a greetin’ mess after being told she might be a ghostie, she was not as focused as he needed her to be. But he had a grand idea for catching her attention.
He pointed to the tree line, and when she turned to look, he snatched her violin case from her grasp. It was not an easy move, and he feared he’d scratched her hand, so he quickly brought her knuckles up to his lips and kissed them in apology. Her eyes widened in response to his boldness, but then narrowed again when she pointed to her instrument. He’d been right to assume she prized the thing as much as Willa had cherished her own.
“Give it back,” she ordered.
He held it well out of her reach. “I will, miss. I will. And I shall take grand care of it whilst we hurry down the hill.” He motioned for the children to follow and started moving. Wee Roddy kept up fine for a while, which pleased him, but he felt like the meanest of men when he heard the wee’un panting for breath.
He stopped immediately, handed Lippa the violin case, and pulled the babe up onto his back, securing him inside the drape of his plaid.
The woman gasped. “What did you do with my violin?”
“The young lass has it. She’ll take great care with it, aye?”
“The young lass? Did you say lass? One of them is a girl?” She was obviously outraged, but she dropped to her knees and blindly waved the others to come to her.
He reminded her the children could neither see nor hear her.
“Is she close?”
Hamish sighed impatiently. “Did ye hear me say that we must hurry?”
“Is she close?”
“Yes,” he lied. Then, in Gaelic, he translated what the woman had said. The young lass held the case behind her back and smirked.
“Tell her,” the woman said quietly, “that we’ll go to my house, now, and everything will be okay. I don’t know exactly what I can do for her, for them, but we’ll figure it out, okay?”
He translated word for word. When the older children looked up at him, there were tears in their eyes, which made little sense. Hadn’t he reassured them? What difference could such consolation make coming from an American woman they couldn’t even see?
Still, the youngest still clings to me in need.
He turned his head to the side and addressed his passenger. “How do ye fare back there?”
The lassie shook her head rapidly. “Roddy doesnae speak, my lord.”
The woman watched
him closely and climbed back to her feet. “What is it? What did they say?”
He blinked the moisture from his eyes and shook his head. “Later. We must go.” He turned away and headed down the hillside, trusting the children to follow if only because he held their brother on his back. And the American would follow because she wanted her violin.
A proud moment. Hamish Farquharson, blackmailer of women and children.
Not exactly the noble errand he’d been sent for…
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Though they made far too visible a procession as they left Odin’s Helmet behind, they encountered no Redcoats and thankfully, everyone remained visible—to Hamish at least. He was fairly surprised when he noted Shepard’s Rock far to the right. The old woman’s cottage wouldn’t be far then. At least they would be able to find it in the darkness descending all about them.
He led them into the deepest, most shrouded part of the woods, with large willows that offered concealment. There, he removed the bairn from his back and they all sat upon the cool ground to rest.
When the air moved, he tasted blaeberry tarts. And he imagined what the old woman might do if he knocked upon her door again, and this time with three, perhaps four hungry bellies to add to his own.
“We must be verra careful,” he told his companions. “I must go speak with the old woman. I only need to say our business is concluded. If ye believe ye can go on, we can continue down to the river. Of course, it will mean traveling in the dark.”
The woman gave him an incredulous look. “What are you talking about? I told you it’s my cottage. They don’t need to go any farther.” She grimaced. “Do they…eat?”
He decided it would be wiser to save his breath to cool his porridge rather than argue with a stubborn ghostie. So, he suggested only that she trust him, then motioned for them all to stay where they were.
He was halfway to the wattle and daub house before his spine told him, with a tingle, that he was being followed. He turned sharply, but the rag-tag mob that followed hadn’t a red coat among them.