The Blacksmith: A Highlander Romance (The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 38) Read online

  THE BLACKSMITH

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series (Book 38)

  By L.L. Muir

  KINDLE EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  The Blacksmith © 2018 L.Lytle

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  Amazon KDP Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To the great Gene Kelly…

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER-TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  CURRENT BOOKS by L.L. Muir

  Note from the author…

  About the Author

  THE BLACKSMITH

  PROLOGUE

  For nearly three hundred years, Kerry Moffat Mather has haunted Culloden’s moor, too ashamed to move on to the next life and face his father and his grandfather before him—after disgracing…the family frypan.

  You might assume Kerry and his ancestors were notorious cooks, but you would be mistaken. The trade passed from generation to generation is that of a blacksmith. Whether God blessed the Mathers with stature and strength, or whether their bodies changed to accommodate the swinging of man-sized hammers, is a discussion for Darwin and his ilk. But it is a fact that every man up the Mather line has always been of remarkable size.

  And so it was with Kerry. Though he’d always been a bit leaner than his father, his shoulders were just as wide, his legs just as long.

  Smith, farrier, and armorist, he was naturally of real value to any army, but he’d been raised to be of service to his fellow Scots and their rightful king—whenever James Stuart saw fit to come after his throne again. The day Bonnie Prince Charlie came calling in his royal father’s stead, Kerry recognized his last chance to fulfil his destiny.

  The original mounts of Fitzjames’ Horse were captured with their ships from France and their riders were left to procure the animals from other regiments. Therefore, Jacobite farriers were a bit thick on the ground—short on horses and long on soldiers willing to shod them.

  And thus many blacksmiths, including Kerry Mather, spent a great deal of their time forging and honing blades of all sizes—blades their brothers in arms would never have a chance to lift. For, on the opposing side of the battle, speed was all the Hanoverians were worried about. And their deftness at reloading their weapons made all the difference in the end.

  Impeded by cold and swampy mud, the Jacobites were robbed of their chance to use the famed Highland charge and were cut down by bits and balls of metal propelled into their half-starved and weary bodies. And to add insult to injury, the Highlands’ bravest, who did make it across that godforsaken moor, were cut down by a clever Hanoverian lunge to the right.

  With a frightening ball ping hammer in his right hand, and the wide impenetrable fry pan in his left, Kerry Mather was eager to split the skulls of as many Redcoats as were foolish enough to meet him on the field. His favorite gambit was to get the enemy’s undivided attention with a hammer in his ear, then a fate-sealing upswing—with the side of his iron pan—to the devil’s leg-jewels.

  If the bastard survived the move, he would at least wish for death.

  Kerry had enlisted as part of Ogilvy’s regiment, but had been reassigned to the cavalry under Master of Horse, Michael Sheridan. By the time they reached Culloden, he’d become part of Avochie’s Strathbogie Battalion. Along with Fitzjames’ Horse, they supported the right wing of the Jacobite line when the battle finally began.

  Amid all the chaos, however, Kerry forgot to keep the Mather frypan over his heart, as he’d promised his father he would. When the soil of Scotland rose to kiss him one last time, the older man’s warning repeated in his ears as Kerry lay gasping for breath.

  “Keep the iron over yer heart, son, until ye can bring it home again.”

  The advice proved prophetic indeed, when the ball that brought the younger Kerry down hit him just left of center…

  As his life leaked from him like so much spilt milk, he realized the last place he’d wish to be is near the gates of glory when his father died and came looking for him. Satan’s fire was far less intimidating than having his ear drawn and tempered by the forge of Kerry the Elder’s tongue. So, when he felt Heaven tugging at his soul, he closed his eyes tight and ignored it.

  It was morning when he came to his senses again, rose from his grave, and found four other dead men had risen before him. By midday, seventy-nine of them had balked at the chance to face God. The question was, had the others lingered out of shame as Kerry had? Or was it, as the young witch suggested, a matter of rage with Bonnie Prince Charlie that prevented them from letting go?

  Out of all Culloden’s ghosties, Kerry wondered if he was the only one who did not lay the blame of his death at the feet of the bumbling Stuart prince. But he kept that question to himself for over two hundred and fifty years, until a young witch walked among them and started putting a voice to unasked questions.

  Determined and possessed of a magic he never dreamed possible, Soncerae Muir came to send Culloden’s 79 away to earn their long-awaited revenge. One spirit at a time.

  Kerry hung back on the nights Soni visited. Someday, when she got to the bottom of the spirit pile, when he was the only ghost left standing on the moor, he planned to confess that there was no revenge in his heart. The only anger he harbored was for himself.

  One night in October, however, he discovered that Soncerae Muir had no intention of leaving him for last…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Scotland was constant as old castle ruins…and thanks to a stone or two succumbing to gravity, never the same twic
e.

  Jordan took comfort in that certainty as her airplane touched down for what might be her final visit to the wild and yet homey country she’d come to love. Unfortunately, if the trip didn’t yield something fabulous for her current contract, Foster and Foster Advertising wouldn’t offer another one. And her days of traveling the world on someone else’s dime would be over.

  She could just see herself stuck in a small gray cubical for the rest of her life, altering photos for a graphic design company, plunking the change from her lunch money into a jar marked “Someday. Scotland.”

  The image of that cubical life was crystal-clear in her mind only because that had been her career for the first five years out of high school, until she’d summoned the courage to apply at Foster and Foster. Three years later, she was still shocked she’d actually done it. And not just done it, she’d won it. One of her favorite photos got her over the top. It was a picture she’d taken of a valley in Washington state, that, in a pinch, passed for Scotland.

  Luckily for her, F&F was in the market for a new gimmick for the largest luggage company in the States, and Scotland had been the new bait they’d wanted for their hook.

  Jordan had never meant to share that Washington picture with anyone—or at least the copyright. But sometimes you have to sacrifice one dream to reach for another. It was something an arts professor had said at the time, that life was like a high wire act—you had to let go before you could grab on.

  She’d tried to explain the concept to her mother a hundred times, but the woman just didn’t understand why her daughter had such itchy feet. And no matter how often Jordan tempted her, Linda Lennox was content to spend the rest of her life in Iowa with her second husband—and never see anything exciting in person.

  Sometimes, Jordan wondered if she’d been adopted by her mother, too, and not just the man who’d rashly replaced her late father and forced his name on her. He was the only father she remembered, now, and he was a nice enough guy. But Jordan resented his effect on her mom.

  The plane was finally on the ground. She was back in Scotland. The only thing that mattered now was getting that one in a million shot so that she, too, didn’t end up stuck in the states without much hope of affording an airline ticket again.

  Jordan waited patiently for her turn to exit the small plane, and as she reached the door, she exhaled completely, getting rid of any trace of Paris-layover-air to make room for the primordial and pristine air of Scotland. She stepped out onto the stairs, sucked in a breath, and choked on gas fumes. She coughed her way down the steps and threw a dirty look at the oblivious crew who rushed to refill the plane for its next destination.

  Obviously, the primeval air she was looking for would be further away from the city…

  ~ ~ ~

  Jordan tried to stay mindful that she was back on Scottish soil while she waited for her luggage to appear. But the pressure for her trip to payoff was like a child tugging on the hem of her coat.

  The new ad director at Foster and Foster—a woman named Rebecca—was already a pain in everyone’s butt. Each time Jordan had been to the offices in the past two weeks, the water cooler talk had been all about where people had applied for new jobs. Many of them expected to get the boot just because they couldn’t get along with the new princess. But what they all failed to realize was that even a director couldn’t replace everyone.

  At least not all at once.

  The question was, who would go first?

  Photographers were a dime a dozen—unless they had real, prize-winning talent. And sadly, Jordan’s awards had a lot of dust on them.

  To do her part for morale, she’d pretended to be her usual, confident self when she’d walked out of Rebecca’s office two days ago. She’d made sure the full-timers knew she was being sent to Scotland again. Nothing to see here. They’re still paying my way to Europe. My job is solid. Yours might be too.

  Of course she didn’t tell them how the princess had given her the news…

  “I know you’re booked for Scotland next month, but we’re bumping it up—and cutting it to four days. This account takes priority. But I’m not going to sugarcoat the facts, here. We’re going to pay for one last Scotland trip. Bring back something brilliant, or we won’t be calling again.”

  She’d been given half the time and expected to be twice as good?

  No problem. Scotland had never let her down before.

  Since the luggage carousel was still empty, she went over to the money exchanger and bought a map, turned aside, and unfolded the whole thing against the wall. Then she closed her eyes, said a quick prayer, and pointed. She had to squint to find the town nearest her fingernail.

  Brechin.

  Her quest for the perfect shot would start in Brechin.

  ~ ~ ~

  Soncerae rubbed her hands together before her white bonfire, but Kerry suspected there was little heat coming from the conflagration. The lass of sixteen appeared unusually weary, and he wished he could be of some comfort to the one mortal who was able to move among them, seeing them instead of gliding past, oblivious.

  “Forgive me, Number Five,” she called out. “But yer time has come.”

  Is she speaking to me?

  Her shadowed gaze roved over the heads of his fellow Jacobites until they stopped on his face. “Aye, Kerry Mather. I need ye now, if ye will.”

  But if I doona will it?

  After a short-lived deliberation, he trudged forward, unwilling to embarrass the lass by arguing in front of the others. In truth, he should have pulled her aside long ago and explained that he had no desire to confront Prince Charlie.

  “Dinna fash,” the witch said as he drew near. “I ken just what ye long for, my brave blacksmith. And if ye’re a good laddie and do what is needed, ye’ll have it.”

  It was news to him that he wanted anything at all, but there seemed to be no time for discussing it. She waved him closer and leaned over her ring of green mist to kiss him on the cheek. And bedamned if he didn’t feel it!

  “On with ye now. No time to waste. Already I must send ye back half a day and without my uncle’s help. But there it is. I hadn’t expected yer…destiny…to arrive for another month or more.” She laughed at the expression on his face, then looked him up and down. “Dinna fash, man. Ye’re more than capable. And I daresay it will all be over well before ye wish it to be, aye?” She stepped back and lifted her arms as if to stretch, but her hands performed some hypnotic movements, and darkness came up between them to steal her from view.

  When the darkness receded, he looked down at the hard ground pushing up against his boots. A stone path. A wee park of grass. And ten feet from him, a statue of a man armed with a wide frypan and a ball ping hammer. The shape, the stance—there was no doubt the figure belonged to his own father.

  Kerry turned away in shame and decided Soni Muir was not the compassionate lass he believed her to be if she’d delivered him home to Brechin, to face a statue of the very man he’d disgraced on the battlefield.

  No. No matter what she was asking of him, he couldn’t give it.

  At least not in Brechin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jordan changed her lens out for a telescope and put her camera back up to her eye. She wanted a tighter shot of the statue in the distance with the dark branches unfocused in the foreground. It took her a second to find the Jacobite statue again—

  But it moved! It actually walked away!

  She scrambled to keep him in her sights only to realize she hadn’t captured any of it! By the time she got her finger on the shutter release, she’d lost him. With her naked eye she frantically scanned the little park and caught the quick flap of a stone-gray kilt as it turned the corner of a rock wall. She glanced back where the statue had been, expecting to find the pediment missing its human figure.

  The statue was right back where it started.

  She’d been so sure…

  She finished shoving her equipment back in her bag and headed off for the roc
k wall. There had to be some logical explanation for the fact that the man she’d just seen hot-footing it out of there had looked identical to the statue she’d studied up close and personal ten minutes ago. Because if there wasn’t some reenactment event going on, she might have just lost her chance to capture an actual Scottish ghost!

  Jordan had to wait for one car before she ran diagonally across the street and around the barrier. The sidewalk curved along a low rock wall with the South Esk River just ahead. While she hustled, she swung her bag across her back, slipped her left arm through the shoulder strap, and took off running.

  She concentrated on keeping her bag from bouncing, keeping her feet from slipping on the wet cobblestones imbedded in concrete, and keeping an eye out for the Jacobite dude. Two older women, wrapped in shawls, hobbled toward her showing no signs of having seen a ghost. Over their heads, though, Jordan caught a glimpse of the mystery man’s shoulders disappearing into a tunnel as the path sloped down. His gray cap nearly hit the top of the archway.

  He was just as large as his statue!

  Though her chest flooded with adrenaline, Jordan had to slow down and stand aside to let the two women pass. After they all exchanged pleasant smiles, she took off running again. As long as he didn’t run, she would catch up to him.

  Her feet splashed in a puddle as she tromped through the shadows of the tunnel meant for foot-traffic only. Beside it, a taller underpass allowed for vehicles, even large trucks, but only from one direction at a time.

  The foot tunnel was 20 feet long and she was through it with no problem. When she came out the other side, he was gone. The sidewalk was clear for a city block, all the way to the bend.

  “No!” She turned right and left, but there was no Scotsman in a kilt between her and the river, or between the tunnel and the hillside. “No,” she said again, then groaned.