Rory [Jones] Read online

  RORY

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 29)

  By Jo Jones

  KINDLE EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Jo Ann Jones

  http://jojonesauthor.weebly.com

  RORY

  Copyright © 2017 J. Jones

  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.

  Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES

  RORY

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  To my father…

  …whose quiet heroism matched that of his Scottish ancestors.

  And who taught courage, honesty and integrity by example.

  I love you, Dad.

  I miss you.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES

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

  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.

  RORY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gunmetal-gray clouds obscured the half-moon over Culloden Moor as a shrouding mist stretched its tentacles through the heather and bracken below.

  Rory Patterson listened to the murmurings of the ghosts, eagerly gathered around the Muir witch’s fire. These years of ghostly perseverance had honed all their impatient desires for vengeance against The Prince to a fine edge.

  Some, he knew, looked further, beyond reprisal, to the added promise of moving past this stalled existence, to the promise of eternity away from the blood and bones of a battle that still tainted the ground at their feet.

  Several of the lads vied for Soni’s attention as she approached her fire, her pretty face framed by the softly draped hood of her cape. To this gathering of lost souls, her presence was like a beacon to a doomed ship.

  They’d continued here, just as they’d been in life; proud, competitive, passionate and loyal. Braw lads to the last and proud Rory was, to have fought beside them and to have shared their peculiar brotherhood, these centuries since. Lost and all but forgotten, they’d remained as they’d risen, a number in place of a name, with a bond of allegiance forged in death. At least until the wee witch had taken note and vowed to release them from their prison.

  Of late, however, a few of the lads had begun to hang back, watchful, nervous about the reports of black-clad men, lurking about the moor. ’Twas surely nothing more than youthful mischief, but the ghosts had vowed to keep a protective eye toward their treasured, wee witch, just in case.

  “49! Blast ye, 49, where are ye?” A booming voice pierced the mist seconds before a ghostly soul emerged through it.

  “I’m here, ye roarin’ ox.” Rory clapped a hand to Alistair MacDonell’s thick bicep. “I’m dead, not deaf. Quit yer bellowing. Just because ye rose up as number 2 doesna mean ye have the run of the rest of us,” Rory chided. Though, in truth, the majority of them gave 2 a level of unspoken respect.

  “What are ye thinking, lad?” Confusion deepened the faint lines bracketing Alistair’s stormy blue eyes. “Soni’s makin’ her choice. Ye’re going to miss yer chance.”

  “Nay. I’ll no’ be goin’ just yet, Alistair. I’ve considered it carefully and I’m obliged to stay and see these lads safely gone and know none are left behind. They’ve moldered here long enough. I’m content to wait with them.”

  “Do ye no trust the wee witch to see to them?” Alistair chided. “If she ken’d ye doubted her, she’d likely turn ye into a festerin’ boil on some warty toad’s arse!”

  “Aye,” Rory nodded. “I ken she could do that well enough. Or worse. ’Tis why I’m watching from back here, amidst the shadow and mist.”

  “Ye’re daft, lad.” Consternation thickened Alistair’s voice. “What of your chance at Bonnie Prince Charlie? And your two days of mortality?”

  Rory gave him a scathing look. “Dinna fash. The blackguard Prince will know my mind, to be sure. I’ve a burnin’ itch for the feel of him under my fists, but my duty to the lads comes first.”

  He felt the pain of his burden tighten his jaw. “I led some of them to this.” He swept his arm in a circle to indicate the stone markers bearing the clan names and the broad empty moor, beyond. “Their deaths and their souls lay heavy upon mine. There be times,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I can hardly bear the weight of it.”

  Alistair gave him a sharp look and folded his arms across his broad chest, pulling his shoulders up into his full, impressive height. “Nearly three centuries with a mon reveals more of him than the words he uses to deceive even himself, ye red-headed snipe. I know ye for the brave warrior ye are and I also know the truth of the proud men who followed ye into battle. ’Twas for Scotland they fought, and for Scotland they died.” He squinted a shrewd eye toward Rory. “Ye give yerself too much credit, lad. If not ye, they’d have followed some other Highland sword into battle.”

  “Aye, but ’twas no’ another mon’s sword, was it? ’Twas mine.” Rory tried one of his fiercest looks on Number 2, but it fell as flat as his argument. Alistair had always been able to see to the heart of a matter. ’Twas the man’s gift. And tonight, Rory’s curse.

  As usual, Rory was first to break their stare-down. He had the ability to intimidate many a man, but Alistair knew him too well, and was the only man able to see beyond the hard shell Rory had polished into gleaming armor.

  “Even so, I’ve more here than what awaits me out there.” Rory nodded toward Soni, her fire and the ghosts gathered around it as intently as if they could actually feel its warmth.

  “Och,” Alistair grunted, finally relenting and giving up his pretense at gruffness. He clasped Rory’s shoulder in a steely grip. “I ken, fair well, that these lads are the only family ye’ve ever known. But there be others that will claim ye and pull ye into their fol
d, just as these lads have done.”

  Rory shook his head. “Nay. ’Tis impossible to accomplish in the two days allotted to mortality, and what use anyway, when I’ll no’ be staying wherever the wee witch takes me?

  He pulled away from Alistair’s grasp and paced a few steps, his back to the ghostly gathering. “If ’tis a weakness to admit a longing for family and belonging to more than just myself, I confess it. But I’m no’ a coward, Alistair MacDonell. When it comes time to do right by Soni, I’ll step forward. I’ll go when she calls me and I’ll face what comes after, but what be the harm in holding to the moor a bit longer while some of the lads still linger?”

  A change in the air swirled the mist, revealing a hint of the green glow that surrounded Soni on these nights. “I’m happy to hear ye’ve no’ a coward’s heart, Rory Patterson.” Soni’s soft voice came from behind him. “For yer time is now.”

  Rory whirled to face her. The wee witch had left her fire and sought him out! He opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

  “Aye, lad,” she nodded. “ ’Tis ye I seek this night.”

  A pale hand emerged from the folds of her cape and reached for him.

  ’Twas the last thing he saw.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rory awoke at the base of the Memorial Cairn on Culloden Moor, blinked a couple of times and looked up at the crystal sky and blazing sun, both brighter than normal. Somehow, he’d lost the hours between Soni’s touch and what appeared to be early morning on the moor.

  The wee witch hadn’t taken him after all. Mayhap Alistair had spoken on his behalf, stating Rory’s desire to postpone his journey. Or, perhaps she couldna locate a suitable place for him. No matter, he told himself, shaking off a surprising tingle of regret as he wondered who she’d chosen in his stead.

  But, something dinna seem right. Besides finding himself at the base of the cairn instead of his usual sleeping hollow, his chest hurt. It hurt! And a heaviness dragged at his limbs that he hadn’t felt for…centuries.

  The sudden shock of awareness had him scrambling to his feet, wobbling like a newly foaled colt. He’d forgotten what muscle and bone felt like. It took the space of a few breaths to animate the entire package. Two hundred and seventy-one years without a mortal body tended to dull a man’s reflexes.

  Soni hadn’t passed him over, after all. But what use to give him mortality and leave him in the same place he’d occupied in spirit all these years? Despite the notion that the wee witch must have some reason behind her puzzling choice, he could conceive of no manner of heroic deed required here. ’Twas a few centuries too late for that.

  His gaze swept the grounds, visitor’s center, car-park and memorial stones. All lay as quiet as death.

  Almost.

  ’Twas early still. Although the visitor’s center had no’ yet opened, and the busses shuttling hordes of chatty tourists were no’ due to arrive for another hour or more, one lone car eased into the car-park. An eager, early visitor, no doubt.

  Rory leaned back against the cairn and let the familiar stones support some of his weight while he floundered with his unwieldy body. Not far away, he imagined Alistair and the other remaining lads had likely resigned their disappointed souls to sleep until Soni’s next visit. It disturbed him to realize he missed them already.

  He was alone, now. Truly alone.

  “Pardon me.” A soft voice drifted on the light breeze. “I wonder if you might help me?”

  Rory jerked to his feet, a daring move at best, as the lass shifted her sunglasses to the top of her head, lifting honeyed strands of hair away from her bonny face. Her quizzical look arched perfectly shaped brows over questioning loch-blue eyes.

  “Me?” Shocked by the sound of his own voice, and unnerved by the idea of actually being seen, he glanced around to see if mayhap she spoke to someone else. None but the two of them stood on the moor at this early hour.

  He cleared his throat and did his best to remain steady through an abbreviated bow. Even so, he bungled it. She must think him a complete dolt. “Beggin’ yer pardon, lass. How may I be of service?” He winced at the rusty sound of his voice.

  “I realize I’m early, but if you’re on duty already, I’m rather pressed for time. I have some questions about my great-great-well, lots of greats–grandfather.”

  “Regretfully, I’m no’ a—”

  “According to family legend he presumably died here, on Culloden Moor.” Her wistful gaze swept the broad expanse before them.

  “Aye,” he nodded, captivated by her expressive face. “Too many brave lads were lost here.” Despite the centuries since he’d been in the mortal presence of a beautiful woman, there was something distinctive about this one. He didn’t want to see her go just yet. “What was his name?”

  She settled her captivating eyes and enticing smile back on him. “John Thomas MacCallum.”

  Rory noted the proud, almost reverent way she spoke her ancestor’s name. An ancient ancestor, perhaps his own age.

  “Since the visitor’s center isn’t open yet, I thought perhaps, you being a guide…” She tilted her head just a bit as a small furrow ridged her brow. “You are a guide, aren’t you?”

  He found it surprisingly hard to disappoint her. “I dinna work here, if that’s what ye’re askin’.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes flared wide and a blush warmed her cheeks as she drew her gaze over his kilt, sporran and cuarans. “I’m so sorry! I thought you— From the exquisite detail of your vintage costume, I…” She sighed and shrugged. “Oh, well, I suppose even a seasoned guide couldn’t possibly know everyone’s history. In my eagerness, I rushed to conclusions. Please forgive me for intruding on your privacy.”

  “Dinna fash, lass. No harm done.” Rory felt an unusual need to ease her discomfort and even more than before, wished to stall her departure. “I ken from yer accent, ye’re from America? Mayhap ye’d share yer name so I dinna keep calling ye lass for lack of a proper introduction?”

  Her wide, sunny smile reached her eyes and crinkled the tiniest bit of skin across the bridge of her nose. “I’m Lilly.” She held out a slim, carefully tended, hand. “Lillian Carver if we’re being formal, but let’s not be,” she laughed. “And you are?”

  Rory took her hand in his, feeling the shock of her warmth penetrate his palm. The touch of another human being felt a little…unnerving, after so long, but enchantingly so. “Informally, then,” he agreed, holding back the bow he would automatically have offered at a formal introduction. “Rory Patterson.”

  Her grip was firm and confidant. “Very pleased to meet you, Rory Patterson.”

  “Rory will do, if it pleases ye.”

  “It does,” she replied, slowly removing her hand. “If you’ll stick to Lilly. Lillian is reserved for my father’s world and this,” her eyes swept the moor, “is thankfully not his world.” She brought her gaze back to him. “I’d like to make it mine, though, if only for the small amount of time I have. However…” She backed up a step and lifted a slim shoulder. “I’ve imposed on you long enough. I’ll just walk around a bit.”

  Rory wished to offer something to the lass. It didn’t feel right just shoving her down the path to stumble around on her own. He hadn’t become quite that callous. Besides, what could be the harm in enjoying a bit more time with her, until Soni chose to reveal the quest he would pursue, or the visitor’s center opened? If his luck held, neither would happen just yet.

  “McCallum, ye say, was yer grand-sire’s name?”

  “Yes,” she beamed enthusiastically. “John Thomas. Apparently, he hadn’t formally enlisted in the Jacobite cause, but as news spread that men were gathering at Drumossie, er, Culloden Moor to fight the English, the men from his, and a few neighboring glens, left their families to join the battle.”

  Rory noted the change in her posture as she gazed across the moor. “He didn’t return. There’s simply no record of what happened to him. He wasn’t listed among the dead, deserted, or anything else.” She sighed heavily
, as if she’d carried the burden, for a long time. “He left behind a pregnant wife and two-year-old daughter. My many-greats-grandmother Iseabail, waited for him, or word of him, the rest of her life, as have the generations after her.”

  Lilly hugged her arms to her waist. “According to family lore, five men left their families that day. Two were killed almost immediately. Two eventually returned home. One of them said they’d been assigned to fight with the Glengarry regiment and that the onslaught was fearsome.” My grandmother tried to talk to them many times, looking for some small tidbit of hope, but to no avail.”

  Lilly fussed with a perfectly shaped fingernail. “I guess I’d hoped for some revelation to rise from the moor like a ghost. There all the time, but unseen until now.” She shrugged. “It was silly of me.”

  As peculiar as it seemed, something about Lilly Carver reached out to Rory, tethering him to her, despite knowing full well he should be about his own business, and leave her to hers.

  He had a noble deed, a test of honor to accomplish in a very short time and he didn’t think acting the part of a guide for the lass, bonny as she was, and tempted as he was, would fill that requirement. Besides, how could he possibly help? He had no meaningful answers for her. He couldn’t even manage the completion of his own story.

  But her time here was limited. Could he no’ spare one wee hour? Mayhap two? Then he could hand her off to a real guide and be free to seek out the deed that would win his boon and his long-awaited audience with the Prince.

  “I’m no’ the best person to help ye, Lilly, but I’ll assist ye as I can until the visitor’s center opens and we can find ye a real guide.”

  Surely after nearly three hundred years in the company of 78 braw warriors, an hour or two spent with a gentle lass seeking to ken her roots, wouldna be begrudged.