Knox: A Highlander Romance

  Knox

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 58

  L.L. Muir

  Green Toed Fairy

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  A quick note from L.L. Muir

  GHOST SERIES LIST

  All L.L. Muir Books

  About the Author

  To Wickham

  …for whispering in my ear

  Prologue

  Just outside Inverness

  Wickham left the house early indeed, for no one on the ranch had stirred. Not even the animals.

  In winter, he’d sold off most of his horses in order to turn the place into temporary housing for thirty some-odd Highlanders with no place else to go. For he couldn’t very well have left them on Culloden Moor to freeze to death when they’d just been brought back to life again.

  So the barn had become a bunkhouse, the dairy barn a washhouse, and the garage of his home turned into a massive kitchen. Various buildings had been erected where the men could work on their trades, and a small hut was constructed at the base of the hillock so the priest from the city could have some private space for counseling and confessing.

  And oh, how those Jacobites enjoyed confessing. It was a wonder Father Donne had time for anyone else in his parish. To be fair, Wickham suspected the men simply enjoyed speaking about the past and their places in it with a man who knew their secret. But he was sure more than a few of them made a competition of making the holy man's hair stand on end.

  Aye, since February and The Reckoning, the place had transformed. And of course, so had he. He’d promised himself that his transformation was a secret he would share with no one. And now, he was compelled to break that promise.

  He was a budding talent at breaking promises these days. For instance, he’d vowed never to step foot on the Black Isle again—or at least the grounds of Clan Muir. But four weeks back, he’d been forced to break that vow as well. The tragedies in Oxford, and what came after, had to be reported to the Ancient One when it meant danger to fellow witches.

  The meeting had ended with the same old question, the same old answer.

  When will ye be ready to take my place?

  Never.

  The Grandfather of the Muir Witch Clan would never give up. But neither would he. And, knowing exactly how this meeting would end, Wickham drove onto the Black Isle ready to give up his secret all the same...

  For he owed Knox MacKendrick that much.

  Morning was still a while away when Wickham reached the Ancient One’s home on the Black Isle. Even though he had not called ahead, he knew the old man would be prepared to receive him. His foresight was part and parcel of his powerful station, though he claimed the gift was unreliable.

  Wickham knocked, then entered, swallowing that promise to never return.

  The house was dimly lit by a fire in the hearth. The warmth of it had yet to chase away the chill of night, but wood popped and crackled as the flames caught. The sound, along with the smell of fresh smoke, made him almost optimistic for the coming day.

  Bundles of lavender and heather hung in rafters to dry, but they were fresh yet, and lent sweetness to the air. There was a timeless peace to the place that Wickham could not deny.

  “Tell me this secret,” said the old man, his seated form separating itself from the shadows. His voice seemed hoarser than Wickham remembered, but it might be the early hour that made it so.

  “No pleasantries then?”

  “Say it, lad. Unburden yerself.”

  The confession sprayed from Wickham’s mouth of its own accord, as if they’d been just behind his teeth, waiting for his mouth to open. “I have Soncerae Muir’s powers.”

  The old one nodded, as if he’d surmised as much, and for a long while, his teeth chattered on the end of a long, unlit pipe. With his free hand, he held a thick wool shawl of white around his shoulders. Here and there, stitched among vines and leaves, were runes Wickham had never seen before.

  “It is new,” he said. “A gift for an old man who must needs grow older still…while he awaits his replacement.” He gave Wickham a wink as if to say, ‘Better to get the usual argument done with first.’ He pointed with the pipe to a dusty bottle hiding in a corner shelf. “There are glasses in the drawer below it.”

  Wickham collected them and brought the items back to a small table beside a second chair. He waited for the old man’s nod of permission, then poured two fingers of the stuff in a pair of glasses and passed one over. His companion was far too old to be chided for drinking so early in the morning—there was every chance he slept not at all and the hour was merely late…

  The arthritic fingers creased in centuries-old lines. Though his complexion was as rich and warm as polished walnut, the fragile flesh on his hands resembled layers of wax, both soft and translucent. His eyes glittered like wet, dark jewels beneath half-lowered lids. “Congratulations, lad. Or condolences, depending on yer wishes. I kenned the power had to have gone somewhere. But I suspect ye had little say in the matter.”

  “I’ll take yer condolences.” Wickham clinked his glass gently against the other man’s, then took a sip. The whiskey reached the back of his throat and lit his soul on fire. The hairs in his nose were scorched by the taste of toasted nuts and charred barrel. For a moment, he wondered if he’d been drugged, tricked. But then it all settled in his chest and made him very happy he’d come.

  “T’is verra old,” The Grandfather said, then took a tiny sip.

  “As old as ye?”

  “Hardly.” He set his glass on the wide, flat arm of his chair, then folded his hands. “Speaking of old, I have discovered no mention of a fairy race that claims to be older than names. Even the Fir Bolg had a name. The Irish deities have names. The Tuatha Dé Danann were named. And these witch-hunters cannot be older than they. But then, why lie?”

  The man was referring to the very incident that left Wickham indebted to Knox MacKendrick, who had a hand in saving a young pair of Muir Witches from a terrible fate at the hands of those evasive fairies--two of which were slain, and another that might return in the future and hunt down all parties involved.

  Wickham shrugged. “Perhaps they are simply too proud to give their names.”

  “Would ye be too proud to give yer name to a beetle ye expect to tread on?” The old one shook his head. “I must think more on this.” He lifted his chin. “Ye plan to use Soni’s power? Is that why ye’ve come? Or ye wish to be convinced not to use it?”

  Wickham shrugged, nodded, then shrugged again.

  The Grandfather took another sip, then considered the depths of the wee glass and the inch of liquor remaining. “The power to open graves…among others. It is a mysterious gift to be sure, but yers all the same. Use it. Do not use it. But do not fear it. Fear is like a jammed pistol waiting for a man to pull the trigger.”

  Wickham balked. The old one didn’t understand as much as he presumed.

  “Soni’s power was meant for a woman,” he explained. “Her heart was given to these 79. I feel nothing more than an obligation to give them shelter while they make their way. An obligation to Soni, for she no longer has power to manage the men. I do not know them, know their stories, or care to know them.” Wickham regretted how
it sounded, then sighed with frustration. “I wonder if it would be better to give the power back to her, so she can continue as before, meddling in their lives, matchmaking. I am no matchmaker.”

  “Ye think I can see the alternatives in the future? To tell ye which path will be best? No. I might see what a man will do, but not what will happen if he does not. Ye ask too much. Ye think this power is unlimited, but ye will soon learn it is not.”

  “I do not ask for myself. I want nothing, especially yer power. But one of the 79 is wanting, and I believe, if I use a bit of Soni’s gift, I can help him.” He shrugged again and got to his feet. “Perhaps not. I do not know. If it were Soni, she would probably know a better way to help him and have the power to do it, if I give that power back. But she is so happy being a normal mortal. Would she be happier to have her old gifts restored? Ye insinuated once that she could be the one to replace ye…”

  “Auch,” the old man barked. “Now I ken what ye’re wanting. Ye wish me to release ye from yer fate by pawning it off on that poor lassie. Give her back her power and walk away from all of us?” The man’s outrage made him seem so much larger of a sudden.

  “Nay! I only…if it is meant to be. If ye could see far ahead enough to know if she will need it--”

  “Coward.”

  Wickham sucked air through his nose and let his chest fill with anger as well. “Be useful, old man, and tell me this. If I use this power, will I be unable to give it back to Soncerae later on, if need calls? For I fear that is the way of it.”

  The fragile leader sighed, releasing his temper in the doing. “I cannot say.”

  Wickham spun away in frustration and headed for the door. “Ye can say. Ye will not.”

  “I will not choose yer path.”

  He turned again and snarled. “And yet ye insist I replace ye! If that is not choosing my path for me, then ye’re raving.” Wickham didn’t remember opening the door or stepping outside, but on the way to his truck, the old man’s voice rang clearly in his head.

  “Yer mistake, Wickham Muir, is in thinking ye have alternative paths from which to choose.”

  Chapter One

  Knox sat beside Shug Buchanan on the bleachers and waited for Wickham's number to be called. Too busy with other matters, Wickham had asked the pair to stay behind at the auction to collect the animals he'd purchased, including half a dozen horses.

  Knox was a bit nervous about dragging the large horse trailer back to the ranch, but it wasn't too far, and he wouldn't need to do any backing up.

  "Ye’ll do grand," Wickham assured him. But it made Knox curious. What heavy burdens might the male witch carry that he so easily gave over the keys to his vehicle and the responsibility for some rather pricey horseflesh?

  "Dinnae fash," Buchanan said beside him. "Between the pair of us, we can manage fine."

  Knox nodded and sent the big man a grateful smile--a smile that froze on his face at the sight of something just over Buchanan's shoulder. He found it impossible to breathe.

  Buchanan took one look at him and turned to follow his line of sight. "Auch, now there's a pretty beast, no mistake."

  The color of the horse matched the loaves of bread Knox's mother pulled from the oven every morning. Mane and tale to match. A darker toasting on the knees and hooves.

  Buchanan faced him once more. "Are ye all right, mon?"

  Knox hardly knew.

  He shook his head and forced air into his lungs, along with the pungent fragrance of straw, dust, and animal sweat. "T'is the very spit of my own horse, King. My father gave him over to Prince Charlie for support. My horse," he repeated, hearing the whine of a grown but petulant son the day he'd come home to find King gone.

  Buchanan swung his beard from side to side. "A pity that," he said. "Why could they not allow ye to join the mounted regiments?"

  "No training."

  "Auch. I hadn’t thought of that. And did yer father offer his son for the army? Or did ye volunteer?"

  Knox snorted, remembering. "I was so angry about the horse, I was happy to volunteer, if only to get some distance from him. It is not natural for a son to wish to kill his father, and I hoped time would wear out the devil in me.”

  Buchanan shrugged. "Ye may be wrong. It might just be more natural than ye think."

  Knox glanced about the stockyard. "I wonder who bought the Dun."

  "I shall stay and keep an ear out. Go on and visit yer King. Perhaps it will cheer ye."

  Knox slapped Buchanan on the back and rose to do just that. He knew that many of his fellows at the ranch had noticed his melancholy, and a few had commiserated. But he felt like he was quite alone in his wretchedness. Every few weeks, Fate would drop a lovely woman into the path of one of the former ghosts, and soon after, he’d leave the place for good. And though Knox wouldn't begrudge any of them their happiness, he knew in his soul Fate would never be coming for him.

  Nor did he welcome it.

  He neared the paddock where the seemingly forgotten horse paced in one direction, then the other. A glance proved there was no one within earshot, so he spoke freely. "Come to me, King."

  The beast's ears turned at the rumble of his voice and it fearlessly trotted back to greet him. Knox held up a hand to see if it would shy away, but it simply blinked and waited for his visitor to adore him. Knox, of course, was smitten.

  "Interested in my lovely?" An elderly gentleman hobbled up behind him with the aid of a crooked but polished walking stick. "I arrived too late for the auction, but I thought if I let him prance around a wee while, a canny horseman would come.”

  Knox offered a slight bow. "I cannae claim to be canny, sir, but I am a horseman, albeit a poor one." He patted the beast's neck again. "I once loved a laddie like him verra much...long ago."

  "Bonnie thing, is he not?"

  "Aye." Knox sighed, knowing he must turn away. "I wish ye good fishing, sir. But ye'll need no luck with bait such as this." He bowed again and turned away.

  "Auch, laddie. Are ye not brave enough to make an offer for 'im? Look at those eyes. Already sad to see the back of ye, he is."

  It was true. The horse that had paced the small paddock before was now content to stand and wait for more adoration. Knox gave in to temptation and reached back to run his hand down its nose. The white star between its eyes was so eerily similar to his King, it made him believe, only for a heartbeat, that it was.

  "Even a poor man needs something for himself now and again," the old man teased. "Make me an offer, lad. Make me an offer and this happy horse is yers."

  Knox felt a jolt in his heart and rubbed his chest while he wondered at the meaning. Perhaps it was hope that sprang to life after lying dormant for nearly 300 years. Perhaps he would never know true happiness, but he might be able to walk the ghost of his King around the ranch now and then.

  He made the man an offer, nearly fainted when it was accepted, then handed over every pound and pence he had in his sporran before signing a promissory note for the rest. It would take him the better part of a year to own the horse free and clear, but what else was he to do with his money?

  Buchanan joined him soon after the old man had gone on his way. He looked fit to be sick. "They've called Wickham's number. Asked us to back the trailer to the loading chute."

  Knox laughed. "Relax, mon. Wickham has shown me how it's done half a dozen times. Hand on the bottom of the wheel, then ye move right or left depending on how ye wish the tail of the trailer to go."

  "Aye? Weel, ye make it sound so easy, I am eager to see ye do it."

  Thankfully, the audience was small, and most were too kind to laugh aloud...when it took Knox five tries to get the end of the trailer close to the chute. His new purchase, his King, was loaded last. And though he expected Buchanan to scoff at the agreement he'd made for continued payments to the old gentleman, his big friend surprised him.

  "A grand idea indeed. The horse was meant to be yers, surely." The big oaf grinned all the way home. But then again, so did Knox
.

  Chapter Two

  Winnie smiled at the sourpuss manning the cash register and waited for her change. The first time she'd been to the little grocery store around the corner from her rental apartment, she'd forgotten her Euros and pounds and been left with only dollars in her pocket.

  "Dollars?" The man sputtered and spat, then muttered that he had no time for returning messages to the shelves, whatever that meant. And when the sputtering was done, he'd quickly calculated the exchange rate in his head and took her money.

  This time, she handed over British pounds, sure he'd be relieved.

  He looked at her sideways, like he thought she might not be right in the head just because she was smiling. Apparently, he didn’t remember their first encounter as clearly as she did. Next time, she thought she might try Russian rubles. She'd show him crazy.

  Sidney met her at the front door and took the bags. “Groceries are great, but we’re going out. I’ve made up my mind.” He bugged out his eyes to make his point.

  "Fine," she said. “Dinner’s on you. That store didn't have all the stuff I need for Baked Ziti."

  “Fine. But brace yourself. I’m going to do it tonight. The suspense is killing me. I’ve got to get it over with. I can’t relax until I do.”

  Sid was her best friend and the only thing she hadn't lost during the California fire that devoured her home and car. It took a while for the initial shock to wear off, but when that insurance check landed in her hand, she wasn’t interested in rebuilding a life that hadn’t been working for her in the first place. So, what was a woman to do?