Patrick
PATRICK
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No.26)
By Cathy MacRae
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Short Dog Press
www.cathymacraeauthor.com
Patrick © 2016 Short Dog Press
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
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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.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PATRICK LINDSAY
Viking words of interest
BOOKS IN 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
MORE BOOKS by Cathy MacRae
About the Author
An Excerpt from Macleod
PATRICK LINDSAY
Centuries ago, dragons ruled the coastline of Scotland and men who fought them were considered heroes. One ghost from Culloden’s moor fears he will never be counted among the brave—until Soni gives him an opportunity that leads him deep into the past and makes him question what he believes about himself and the world around him.
As a shoemaker, no one thought to choose Patrick Lindsay when gathering forces to fight for Prince Charlie. Though included as an afterthought, Patrick is warmed by the soldierly camaraderie—and a glass or two too many of whisky. Grabbing the chance to prove his bravery, his trusting nature led him to his death on Culloden Moor. Now he’s been given a second opportunity to prove his worth. But will he again follow the crowd, or will he take a chance on real bravery?
Laila’s healing powers may seem like magic to some. And her secret friendship with Ormarr the Terrible would make her appear suspicious to many in her village. But when she’s caught between an injured dragon and a melancholy ghost, will the rumors of witchcraft prove too much?
Viking words of interest:
Fifl- idiot
Dunga- useless fellow
Ormarr - orm “serpent” and herr “army,” hence “serpent army.”
DEDICATION
To those who believe in ordinary acts of bravery,
and follow their heart.
BOOKS IN THE SERIES
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor
1. The Gathering (by LL Muir)
2. Lachlan (by LL Muir)
3. Jamie (by LL Muir)
4. Payton (by LL Muir)
5. Gareth (by Diane Darcy)
6. Fraser (by LL Muir)
7. Rabby (by LL Muir)
8. Duncan (by Jo Jones)
9. Aiden (by Diane Darcy)
10. MacBeth (by LL Muir)
11. Adam (by Cathy MacRae)
12. Dougal (by LL Muir)
13. Kennedy (by LL Muir)
14. Liam (by Diane Darcy)
15. Gerard (by LL Muir)
16. Malcolm (by Cathy MacRae)
17. Cade (by Diane Darcy)
18. Watson (by LL Muir)
19. Iain (by Melissa Mayhue)
20. Connor (by LL Muir)
21. Macleod (by Cathy MacRae)
22. Murcoch (by Diane Darcy)
23. Broderick (by LL Muir)
24. The Bugler (by LL Muir)
25. Kenrick (by Diane Darcy)
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.
PATRICK
CHAPTER ONE
The witch’s words rang in his ears.
Do a good deed, my lad, and earn yer boon.
Though the expression in her eyes was kind, Patrick could hardly keep his knees from knocking together in fright. He’d closed his eyes in anticipation of what would happen next, for with a flick of her fingers, she’d sent him away from the moor he’d haunted—with 79 brethren ghosts—for the past 270 years.
What have I gotten myself into? Not the first time he’d asked himself this question, to be sure. Och, the lads rallying men to the Prince’s cause had made war sound so, so … brave. And Patrick had secretly always wanted to be brave.
He clenched his fingers over palms calloused by the rub of the butt of the awl he used to punch holes in leather, and crisscrossed by fine white lines of old scars from the knife that shaped the leather soles of shoes he made and sold in his da’s cobbler shop. What made him think he could be brave? Making shoes wasnae such a difficult trade. A bit exacting for the more imperious customers, but he’d been born and raised in his da’s shop. ’Twas in his blood.
The blood he’d spilled on Culloden Moor nearly three hundred years ago.
His da had shaken his head, clearly grieved his son was headed off to fight for Prince Charlie, but Patrick, imbued with a sense of rightness and perhaps a few drams of whisky—paid for by the Jacobites who’d taken him under their collective wing—felt a deep camaraderie he couldn’t shake.
“We want a Catholic king back on the throne,” he’d argued, stuffing his rucksack with a spare shirt and a loaf of bread.
“Ye are daft, Patrick,” his da murmured. “But I willnae stand in yer way.” He’d pressed a piece of silver into Patrick’s hand, closing his fingers over the bit of money Patrick knew was hard come-by.
“Come home if ye can, lad.” Patrick had carried the last words his da had spoken deep in his heart since that chilly morn as he set off from Perth with Lord Kilmarnock’s Footguards, a rusty flintlock pistol tucked in his belt.
Patrick’s thoughts returned to the present. He kept his eyes screwed tightly closed as the air cooled about him, half-afraid of what he’d see once he gave in, defeated his mistrust, and looked about. He concentrated on what he knew. The moor, in all its manifestations, from the bog he’d died in to the partially drained land he’d roamed the past 270 years. The late summer sun had beamed its dying rays on the waving grass and stones piled into cairns. But its encouraging warmth no longer caressed his skin. Though his blood ha
dn’t heated in nearly three centuries—even on those days he remembered to rise from his boggy resting place—he looked forward to the touch of sunlight on his skin each time. One of the simple things he was loathe to relinquish.
His focus narrowed. Cool air wafted over his skin. Fragile moisture collected on the hairs of his arms and legs. A peculiar odor filled his nostrils. Smoke—yet from neither peat nor wood fire. For a moment he panicked, remembering as if it was only moments ago he’d faced the cloying smoke and rattling musketry of the government forces. The scent caught his notice, forced him to open his eyes and take stock of his new surroundings.
A mist hung over him cool and heavy, sparkling on the three stone walls partly enclosing him. A faint red glow pulsed deep within the mist from the darkness beyond the single opening and alarm punched like a warm fist in the middle of his chest. He sniffed the air again.
Nae smoke I’ve smelled before. He frowned and peered hard at the ruddy light. In and out, bright and dull, its intensity ebbing and flowing beyond the misty veil. Curious in spite of the dread pooling in his stomach, he crossed himself as he rose slowly to his feet, gaze transfixed on the peculiar sight.
Mother Mary! What has the wee lassie done? Denial struck hard and fast in his staunch Catholic heart. He knew better than to enter into an arrangement with a witch, never mind her sweet bonnie face that lit so prettily when she smiled, or her engaging ways that charmed even the dourest of the Culloden ghosts. Though she’d offered him a chance to leave his grave on the moor, he’d hung back, uncertain if he should accept or not. Fearful of the cost to his soul.
He took a step forward, trembling as he walked to his fate.
The ground shook and a moan rose from the center of the red glow. Flames spread outward, then died as quickly as they’d appeared.
Patrick Lindsay froze in place, his heart clenching tight in his chest.
By the bones of Saint Andrew! The wee lassie hasnae sent me to do a heroic deed. She’s sent me to hell!
CHAPTER TWO
Patrick shook in his worn boots, the hem of his ragged coat flapping about his thighs. His eyes closed again as he muttered a prayer and waited for the wrath of God to sweep him into the yawning jaws of purgatory. He ran his fingers up and down the tattered lapel of his coat, as if fingering the beads of his rosary, his fingertips counting every missing warp and weave.
A drop of moisture slipped from the tip of his nose and he wiped it away with his sleeve. His eyes began to ache behind the screwed-shut lids and he slowly forced himself to open them.
Nothing in the enclosed area had changed. The red aura remained the same. The fires of hell hadn’t reached him yet. With exaggerated care, he edged toward the single opening to the cavernous room. Whether he liked it or not, he would cross close to the eerie fire as he attempted his escape. The ominous color intensified, but Patrick averted his gaze and slipped through the mist.
The air warmed, cloying in the damp air. The mist swirled, acting like no fog he’d ever encountered before. It rose in the air then drew back, like dancers meeting and parting in a ghostly reel. Words, indistinct, wavering, floated to his ears. Patrick stretched up on his toes, straining to see through the mist.
“Who’s there?” His voice, querulous as an auld man’s, echoed thinly in the chamber.
Instantly, the light went out.
* * *
Laila stiffened. Had someone called? The glowing breath in the center of the chambered peak was doused as if with a bucket of water. Had Ormarr heard it, too?
Impossible. ’Twas naught but one way into the large chamber beyond, and she’d seen none enter the caverns in the hours past. Unless they’d sprouted wings and flown.
Recalled to her mission, she uncovered the small ember resting in a clay jar in the woven reed basket on her arm. The tiny brand glowed as though breathing air into itself, its red and gold eye staring at her from inside the dark pot. Laila blew on it gently then held it to the end of a branch she’d left leaning against the wall on her last trip to the caves two days earlier.
The stick, damp from its time in the mist, sputtered in protest as the spark nipped at its charred end. After a few moments of determination, the brand lit and Laila held it carefully aloft.
Streaks of gold and red ran wetly down the rock walls of the cavern, reflections of the torch glow. Enormous puddles of impenetrable black water pocked the stone floor. Laila knew most to be little deeper than the soles of her low boots, but the darkness made even the shallow ones appear bottomless. She ignored the deceptive pools, searching the many side chambers for the beast she knew lived within.
“Ormarr?” she ventured. A trail darker and thicker than the water led to the left. With the familiarity of many years exploring the forbidden cave, Laila stepped forward.
“Can ye help me?”
The voice she’d thought she’d imagined earlier trailed thinly through the chamber. She sent a startled look over her shoulder, torn between seeking Ormarr who she knew hid from her, nursing his injury, and discovering who was lost on the Forbidden Isle.
“See who it is, lass,” a bass voice rumbled. “I willnae perish this night.”
With a sigh, Laila edged around the rim of a puddle in an effort to keep the hem of her skirt from becoming more of a sopping mess than it already was. She’d misjudged the depth of the tide in the dark and stepped ashore before her tiny boat had come to a complete rest against the pebbled beach. Between the cold night air and the scolding she was sure to get when she returned home, it looked to be an uncomfortable evening.
Peeking around the corner of the chamber, she caught sight of a man, broad-shouldered and muscled, though his steel-gray hair and wrinkled face marked him clearly past his prime. He leaned against the wall, fingers plucking at a rend beneath one arm. Blood as black as pitch trailed down his side.
He waved away Laila’s shocked gasp. “Dinnae fash. ’Tis naught ye can do.”
Laila’s heart twisted. Though uncertain how old Ormarr truly was, she’d noticed certain signs of aging recently. Shortness of breath. A tendency toward rest. A faraway look in eyes that once seemed mysterious, now deep-sunken amid numerous wrinkles. And a lack of tolerance for what he termed interference from her.
She inhaled sharply against the sorrow in her heart. “I will leave the basket with ye so ye may dress the wound.” It was difficult to leave without caring for Ormarr herself, but ’twas clear he brooked no protest and they could both be in danger if someone else roamed the caves. “I will see who is about.”
Shadows flickered across his face as he gave a short nod, emphasizing the years on a visage she’d once thought timeless. Laila set the basket on the stone beside Ormarr.
“Thank ye for yer care, lass.” His voice, always gravely and deep, warmed her heart and made her think on happier days. She met his gaze, bravely holding back tears.
“I will help in whatever way needed,” she answered.
“It has always been so,” he agreed, this time managing a half-smile she knew was for her benefit. With a final wave, he dismissed her.
Laila swallowed against her distress. Freya’s cold, hard toes! Why pick now of all times to send a stranger into the caves?
For no one of her clan would dare the cliffs of the Forbidden Isle. They feared equally the healer who marked the ancient herb gardens on the sheltered side of the island as her private domain and the old legend of the dragon who inhabited the hollow peak of the mountain.
The legend brought to life again today after years of disuse. Shaking her head against the foolishness that had resulted in her friend’s injury, Laila glided cautiously into the hall.
CHAPTER THREE
A circle of light broke through the mist, mesmerizing Patrick with its glow. He stared into the pulsing radiance as it grew larger, undulating rays against the darkness. His heart leapt, thumping wildly in his chest. He swallowed against fear and patted the rusty pistol in his belt for bravery.
“Is anyone here?” A swee
t feminine voice echoed off the wet stone walls of the cavern like the tinkle of a bell. Patrick’s ears warmed. Lasses were kind to him, but had never shown him much interest beyond superficial flattery for his skills as a shoemaker. He attempted an air of nonchalance as he’d seen other men do around a pretty lass.
“Aye.” He waited a moment, but heard no reply. He tried again. “I seem to be lost.” Blast! Would a real man admit he’s lost? Patrick’s shoulders drooped.
Dark eyes set in a pale, heart-shaped face appeared, her golden hair glimmering about her face like a halo in the torch light. The woman approached, her simple gown clinging to her petite frame, a thin cloak draped about her shoulders, the delicate aroma of lavender and a hint of something spicy rising to his nose. She gave him an appraising stare.
“How did ye come here?”
Her words, firm yet kind, sounded a bit strange to his ears, the shape of them almost foreign. Patrick offered a tentative smile.
“I dinnae know.” He shrugged, searching his brain for an adequate reply. “There was a bit of a stramash … .” He shrugged again. A stramash and a few hundred years. But he didn’t think it wise to admit to the last part.
The woman lifted a torch and peered past him. Apparently seeing nothing, she sighed and motioned at him with her free hand.
“Follow me. The way out is dangerous. Ye dinnae wish to fall into a hole, do ye?”
Patrick’s boots clattered on the stone as he stumbled, his gaze snatched from the enchanting twinkle in the woman’s eyes to the warning glitter of black water on the floor. She shook her head but led him through the winding passages of the cave without another word.