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  LACHLAN

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No.2)

  By L.L. Muir

  AMAZON KDP EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  Lachlan © 2015 L.Lytle

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor © 2015 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES

  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 NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To the keepers of Culloden’s secrets…

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor

  1. The Gathering

  2. Lachlan

  3. Jamie

  4. Payton

  5. Gareth

  6.Fraser

  A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES

  Although the individual stories of Culloden’s 79 need not be read in strict order, The Gathering should definitely be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.

  The Reckoning, Number 79’s story, will finish the series.

  The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lachlan noted the speed and the distance of the oncoming train and decided to wait for it to pass before crossing the busy street. There was time a’ plenty, and he was unused to rushing about—after being naught more than a ghost for the past two hundred and seventy years. Besides, he thought it wise to take things slowly this first day of being alive again.

  One day, the witch had promised. Two at the most.

  But Soncerae had always had a twinkle in her eye for him. Surely she’d gift him with two full days to perform his heroic deed—which would mean two glorious days of feeling the ground beneath his feet, tasting the subtle tang of sunshine, and smelling the sweet, piercing scents of the world blossoming around him.

  And if he was only given the time it took for the sun to rise and set but once, he would savor the minutes no matter where he happened to be.

  A very young lassie dropped her pink backpack on the tracks just after the bend. The contents scattered across the rails, and when she paused to collect them, Lachlan realized his slow-paced plans might not be possible.

  The train still came. Its route was clear. Straight a bit more, then the turn.

  The lassie hurried, but she wasn’t paying any mind to the locomotive bearing down on her, so Lachlan started running, knowing as he did so that saving the sprite might well be the heroic act required of him. He’d expected it to take longer, for he’d only awakened in the park a bare five minutes before. But no matter. Tastes and sensations were hardly as important when compared with finally exacting his revenge! In truth, he’d be more than happy to move on right away, to claim his boon and have his tête-à-tête with Bonny Prince Charlie. In the flesh.

  He reached the lassie’s side and shouted in his most compelling voice, “Move!” Then he turned his boot to the side and gave the backpack and most of its spilled contents a good swift kick that sent it farther into the road and away from the tracks. With a frown on her face, the lass hurried around him to pick up a small blue box his kick had missed, so he had no choice but to grab her wrist and pull her out of danger.

  But the stubborn thing moved not at all.

  He found that a young woman had a hold of the lassie’s other arm and was trying to pull her back toward the safety of the platform. The child finally noted the train and wrestled herself out of both their grasps, then scurried out of danger on her own. In the doing, however, she’d managed to pull her other would-be rescuer directly into the path of the train that now bore down on them with its horn blaring loud enough to wake the dead.

  Lachlan wrapped his arms around the woman and spun her out of harm’s way. She landed on top of him and together they rolled toward the far side of the road. Small bits of rock pushed into the flesh of his half-bared arms as they went, and the sting of it shocked him, causing him to pause for a heartbeat or two while he reveled in the knowledge that he was, indeed, human again. Luckily, there were no cars at the moment or they might have been struck in any case.

  The damsel struggled out of his hold and fumbled with her brown scarf, pulling it over her head before standing and running away down the wide pavement. No word of thanks. No word of any kind. But he didn’t need her gratitude. It was enough that she was safe and the younger lass as well. And perhaps the latter had been frightened enough that she would be more careful around train tracks in the future.

  Lachlan got to his feet, moved out of the gutter and onto the pavement, then braced himself for what would surely feel like a short flight of some sort.

  But nothing happened.

  If his sense of direction could be trusted, the sun proved it was mid-afternoon and he faced it, enjoying the warmth on his skin and the smell of salty sweat rising from his face while he waited for Soni, his precious witch, to call him back.

  But she didn’t.

  “Blast ye, Soncerae!” he shouted to the heavens. “Take me back!”

  Lachlan paid no mind to the way people looked at him. He’d be far removed from the spot at any moment. And how else was he to communicate with the young Muir witch?

  Any moment now.

  Any moment now.

  She was likely occupied with another of his comrades. As soon as she placed the fellow where she wanted him, she could then turn her attention back to Lachlan.

  Yes. Sound reasoning, that.

  Soni simply hadn’t been prepared for the swiftness in which he’d been able to complete his task, ‘twas all. She’d be impressed, surely, with his heroic deed, but even more impressed that he’d been in human form only a handful of minutes before he’d come to someone’s rescue.

  He had no doubt that his brothers in arms would have similar success. To his way of thinking, a Highland warrior was needed on every corner in the current day and age in which he found himself. Perhaps the lot of them would be able to perform their heroic deeds and gather again on Culloden Moor before the sun set that evening.

  He’d learned of the current state of society as the other spirits had—for the most part—from the wee devices the tourists carried on their persons while visiting Culloden. Especially did they learn from the younger visitors who were far more concerned with their toys than with the history of a stone, or the dissolution of an entire clan system.

  ‘Twas best the youngsters weren’t aware of the dozens of ghosties who milled over their shoulders, pushing one another aside for a better view of the small screens.

  The grandest education came from the guards who neglected their duties in order to watch larger screens indoors. For how else would Lachlan and the others have learned to appreciate their own lifetime of the 18th century, before vampires and werewolves began hiding among men? Of course, he was of a mind that the movies that featured such monsters were little better than gossips, spreading superstiti
on alone.

  He’d watched the tellie enough that he was unsurprised by the light rail system of the city in which he’d landed. However, he had been disappointed by the younger lassie’s lack of respect for something so large, so powerful, and so dangerous as the long locomotive.

  He’d not been thinking of his duty at that moment, had no thoughts but to save the lass from her own foolishness. Thus he should be quite pleased, as should Soni, that brave acts came naturally to him.

  Unfortunately, that delicate woman had stepped in and thwarted his first noble deed. Only then did he realize she might be taking more from him than a little glory. She was tugging away at his chance to be the first to meet with Bonnie Prince Charlie. Surely no other spirit would step so swiftly from Culloden, to proving himself, to collecting his boon.

  And it would be Lachlan’s pleasure to watch Charlie’s face when the blackheart was made to realize how the defeat—nay, the massacre—of Scotland truly lay at his feet. And because of the prince’s failings, an untold number of souls were unable to truly go to their rest.

  Damn him to Hell.

  Yes, Lachlan was sure to be the first…if Soni could just see that he’d finished his quest. Even if the woman had snatched the lassie’s rescue from him, he’d ended up rescuing that woman in the lassie’s stead. And he was only required to prove himself once.

  Of course he could appreciate the pretty usurper’s quick mind, her own heroic intentions, but he didn’t have to appreciate them truly until he’d had his boon. Then he’d enjoy the memory of her at his leisure, when the rains kept the tourists away and there was naught else to occupy his thoughts, when a quiet mind would find him face down with his legs pinned beneath Alan McHenish.

  But that wasn’t right. If Soni Muir was to be believed—and she’d made some fairly miraculous things happen thus far—then he wouldn’t be returning to Culloden Moor. Ever.

  The witch called it moving on, crossing over. ‘Tis what was expected of him after he spoke his piece with the prince. ‘Twas the bargain. But what gave her the right to bargain for Culloden’s 79? And with whom did she bargain? She’d claimed she’d had no dealings with the devil, but how else could she have brought him back to life? And what kind of witch would be so interested in a troop of long-dead Highlanders in any case?

  At the last moment, before he “moved on”, he would demand to know.

  He’d been standing in the middle of the walkway brooding for far too long. The young witch should have appeared already. So Lachlan turned his sullen thoughts back to the heavens. “Soni Muir! Move yer arse!”

  Birds rose in a flurry from the branches of a tree planted in a giant bowl and he glowered. Did people not know trees should be planted in the ground? Both sides of the street were lined with the same bowls, and the trees inside them were brothers to the one before him. They’d be dead by winter. The fools who placed them would likely plant others, the eejits.

  Perhaps a fine industry in this century would be the caring of trees, to spare them from foolish men.

  It seemed Soni was no more impressed with his summons than were the birds, for she neither showed herself nor removed Lachlan to his pressing appointment. So he sat on the rim of the offensive bowl and tucked his bonny red kilt a bit between his knees. No use exciting the local women when he wasn’t going to linger enough to satisfy their curiosity.

  Any minute now.

  He thought of the comely lass whom he had saved. A brave lass who might have died had Lachlan not been there. Although, it stood to reason that if he’d not been there, she would have succeeded in getting the young lass and herself to safety in plenty of time. So, was it his fault she’d been in danger? Did that nullify his heroic deed?

  Was that why Soni hadn’t shown herself?

  Auch! It must be so! Blast the woman’s hide!

  A bonny lass, sure, but perhaps delicate in health. For surely the way she was clothed indicated an inability to warm herself. Even lying in the street, against his warm form, she’d shivered and ducked beneath a fold of her scarf.

  But now that he considered, the day and place to which he’d been sent didn’t suffer from the chill spring wind of the Highlands. There was no moisture to the air and only a few clouds. In Scotland, it would have been considered a fine late-summer day. And looking about him, he realized that few people bothered with more than a shirt.

  As for himself, a cursory glance proved his clothes were missing the mud and wrinkles of two hundred and seventy years. In his opinion, he looked fairly presentable, even to a twenty-first century eye. His fine shirt was much warmer than it had been that long-ago morning on Drumossie Moor, as it used to be called. His knees knew no chill even as a breeze swirled around them, and there was no indication it might grow to a wind strong enough to even lift his kilt.

  The woman couldn’t have been cold then. She must have been trying to avoid recognition. And with all the commotion of the child’s things spilling on the ground, with a train bearing down on them all with its ear-splitting trumpet—the attention they had drawn couldn’t have made the pretty lass happy. So it was no wonder she gave him a scowl before she hurried away.

  He glanced in the direction she’d gone. East, toward the mountains. Yes, she’d been a bonny thing with her warm brown hair and her fathomless eyes. In fact, he’d like the chance to look her over again, perhaps speak with her a bit, for it seemed as if he had a wee more time on his hands.

  A cheery thought occurred to him—if the lass were hiding from someone, she likely needed the aid of a braw Scottish warrior. Aye, she just might be the one he’d been meant to save all along. His chance at redemption.

  And she was getting away!

  He jumped back to his feet, gave a quick nod to a group of admiring old women, and started after the lass. He would save her, no matter what the threat, and Soni would come.

  Any moment now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Six blocks. Down two, over one, down one, over two. Harper couldn’t go on. The stitch in her side felt like she’d been ripped open by one of those serrated things her stepfather, Robert St. Clair, hung on his office wall.

  She pushed at the pain with her right hand and risked a glimpse over her shoulder. No one behind her seemed to be in a rush. No big Scotsman lumbered after her.

  Thank goodness! She hadn’t run a mile since high school more than three years ago, and her out-of-shape body had given everything it had. All she had left was her brain—if she could only get some oxygen to it.

  The large glass-and-beam city library loomed over her from across 2nd East.

  Public. Lots of bathrooms. Perfect. She would have run through the crosswalk, but she couldn’t both run and push on her side at the same time.

  Vagrants draped themselves around the low concrete walls like they were taking a coffee break, but they didn’t seem menacing. They were Americans, probably. So maybe, if the Scot tried to grab her, she could holler at them for help. Unless they were so impressed by the big oaf they ended up helping him.

  Maybe if she yelled, “Stop him, he’s anti-American!”

  Yeah, maybe not. No time for long sentences when you’re being trussed up and hauled away to the looney bin like her stepfather had promised. The pretend Scot probably had a nice gag in the large leather sporran that hung in front of his kilt. Plenty of room for some rope or zip ties too.

  But seriously, a kilt? Then again, when you’re that size, it’s probably hard to be stealthy so it wouldn’t matter what you wore. Was he supposed to catch her, or just scare her? She had no doubt the kilt was a clear message from St. Clair. Her stepfather was a big fan of all kinds of weapons, but especially his Scottish Claymores. So he had to be taunting her.

  Go ahead and run, he was saying. Even with all the eyes of Salt Lake on you, I can still chase you down and bring you back again.

  As soon as she was safely inside the large glass doors, she turned to look at the street, hanging on to the handle so she could at least try to hold it clos
ed against any pursuers.

  A dark car turned the corner and stopped. Two kids climbed out and headed for the crosswalk. Some mom using the library as a babysitter, no doubt. Couldn’t she be bothered to see them safely inside? They were what? 8? 10? Okay, maybe 12, but still.

  Harper looked at the faces surrounding the boys. Heads down. No eye contact. So it wasn’t the friendliest town, but at least no one seemed to pose a threat to the kids. That was something, at least.

  Nobody noticed her on display in the large pane of glass. No one even glanced at her unless they were about to come in the door she was holding onto. And even then, it took them less than a second to move on to the next door, happy to ignore her.

  Harper took a deep breath, tried to relax, and went to find a drinking fountain. The stitch in her side made her slow down, but the shine on the floor soothed her. It was good to be somewhere clean.

  She found a fountain and drank like a camel. And while she drank, a body leaned itself against the corner, invading her personal space like no stranger would do.

  She froze.

  “Well, hello there.” A familiar male voice.

  Dark shadows reflected all around the stainless steel as she let the water drool off her lips and into the drain.

  Library. What a stupid idea. It’s where vagrants hung out, and she was a vagrant. Of course St. Clair would send his minions to watch for her there.

  I’m such an idiot!

  So the big Scot had seriously been a prod to get her moving. The shepherd chasing her to the wolves. And she’d fallen for it like a stupid sheep. But what really pissed her off at the moment was that she’d wasted all that energy running when she could just as well have walked to her doom.

  And her side still hurt.

  Finally, she straightened and raised a sleeve to wipe a few drops of water from her chin. “Hello Bart.” She let the name burst through her lips like a private joke. Bart. Ha ha ha.