Return of the Highlander (Immortal Warriors) (7 page)

“Maybe you can help me with the book,” she said aloud, wildly, to try and jolt herself out of the creepiness of the situation. “Do you hear me, Maclean? Come on, give me some clues. What were you feeling as you marched to Culloden? What went through your mind?
An Interview with a Dead Highland Chief.
Mmm, I wonder if
Reading England
would want to review that.”

At least it made her laugh.

The smile stayed. That was what her agent had rung to tell her. Bella’s last book had just been reviewed on the prestigious television show
Reading England
. A
five-star review. It was unheard-of. And since then it had sold out and the publisher was reprinting.

It was unbelievable. Her books never sold out, they never went into reprint. Not once in twelve long years of writing had this ever happened to her.

“Five stars,” she whispered, and laughed.

Not that the book didn’t deserve it.
Martin’s Journey
was the story of an obscure village in England whose inhabitants had struggled to survive the Black Plague in the fourteenth century. Bella had thoroughly researched the villagers who had lived and died there, putting together the story with a combination of parish and other existing records—the priest had written a heartrending account. Several villagers had stood out as heroes, but Martin in particular. She had written his story with verve and poignancy, lifting him from seven centuries of obscurity and giving him the respect she felt he deserved.

And now everyone was reading about him.

“Maybe this time,” she whispered. She’d been waiting for the rest of the world to catch on to her work. The minor figures of history who fascinated her had a strong appeal, but until now no one but her agent and publisher had seemed to recognize that.
Martin’s Journey
deserved to be a bestseller, but even moderate sales would help to get
The Black Maclean
onto bookshelves around the country.

Her heart sank as she realized she had just faithfully promised to deliver the book on deadline when she was already way behind schedule. Why hadn’t she used Elaine’s good mood to her advantage and insisted she needed more time?

The kettle began to boil, and Bella tipped the steaming water into her cup and jiggled the tea bag. Another thought occurred to her that was not so amusing.

“I wonder if Brian knows about the five-star review.”

Dear God, she hoped not. With luck, Brian was too busy with Hamish’s antiques, and her brief brush with fame would be over by the time he knew about it. He would still be livid that after all these years she actually had some recognition and he wasn’t here to bask in it.

And Bella wasn’t the least bit sorry he wasn’t here. She could just imagine it: He’d be pestering her to get a complete makeover. She’d end up not recognizing herself. Bella Ryan, the new and glamorous version.

Only it would still be the old her underneath, looking out.

Her tea was ready, and she took out the bag and added milk and sugar. She glanced through the window at the sunshine outside. The loch was awash with gentle light, more of Gregor’s sheep cropped the moorland grass, and an eagle soared in the cloudless blue.

She had another four weeks on the lease of the cottage. Where would she go then? To Edinburgh and Brian? No, that was over, whatever Georgiana believed. Perhaps it was better not to think too far ahead. Get the book finished first and then deal with what came after.

Bella sipped her tea and forced herself not to turn and look over her shoulder.
There’s no one there, there’s no one there…

Maybe if she repeated it to herself often enough she might believe it.

Bella had been working all day, shuffling
through her pieces of paper, reading her books and staring at her machine. Whatever the voice on the other end of the talking box had said to her, it had driven her into a frenzy. She muttered to herself, she sang, she crumpled sheets of paper and pelted them across the room—one of them went right through him—and she drank lots and lots of her cups of tea.

Cat’s piss, he called it.

Tea was the fashionable drink he’d seen everywhere when he was visiting Edinburgh and Inverness, but he had never developed a taste for it himself. Whiskey and wine and coffee, they were drinks he enjoyed, aye, and in that order.

Maclean didn’t like the way she was carrying on—it made him feel queasy. Instead he wandered about the cottage, pretending to take great interest in the stones from which it was made. They looked awfully like the stones from Castle Drumaird….

“Thieves,” he snarled.

After that he inspected the shiny white box which kept the foods inside it cold—the way the light always came on when Bella opened the door fascinated him, and he longed to be able to open it himself. He felt restless, agitated, and frustrated. She knew he was here. She might deny it to herself, but he could tell she was more aware of him now than she had been before.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch her, hold her. He wanted to be a man to her.

As twilight turned to shadows outside, Maclean couldn’t help himself. He came once more to peer over Bella’s shoulder.

As if she knew the instant he was back, Bella said feverishly, “I know, Culloden Moor! I should start the book there. That’s when things started to go wrong.”

“I fought,” Maclean retorted. “I fought bravely. Write that down on your wee machine.”

“The legend says he didn’t fight. He went home again.”

“I did not!”

“He made a deal with the English, promising not to fight if he was granted free passage home to Loch Fasail and his people remained unmolested.”

“No!” Maclean shouted it, furious, and swung out his hand. His fingertips struck the mug on Bella’s desk.

Bella’s china mug rattled. She eyed it warily. “The fourteenth of April, 1746, and Maclean and his men arrive at Culloden Moor. A Monday night. They line up with the rest of the prince’s exhausted army for their confrontation with the English. They wait until eleven o’clock Tuesday morning, but the Duke of Cumberland
doesn’t appear, so they stand down again until Wednesday the sixteenth.”

Bella paused, but there wasn’t a sound. Maybe she’d imagined the mug jumping about. She’d been up all night, after all. “Um…” She cleared her throat. “I could write that Maclean was no fool and what he had seen was enough for him to make up his mind. He went searching for Lord George Murray, one of the more experienced commanders of the Jacobite army, and when he couldn’t find him he sent a letter to his quarters in Culloden House. Where’s the copy I made…?”

She shuffled more papers around until she found what she was looking for. “It says:

Maclean’s head hurt. Her words were conjuring memories. Brief painful flashes, as if he were once more facing the wrath of the English muskets, though nothing that made any sense.

“The battle plan had been prepared by John O’Sullivan, and he was a poor choice. The Jacobite line was spread too wide, and Maclean had been ordered to the right wing, which was the closest to the English army. He knew they’d be torn to pieces by roundshot and grapeshot long before the order was given to advance.
What Maclean didn’t know was that Lord George Murray had already argued that it would be better to move the battle to softer ground, where the English couldn’t make use of their cavalry. He knew the Highlanders did better when their enemy was less comfortable, less prepared. The men’s wild looks and wild screams were perfect for the sort of blitz attacks that put so many bigger armies to flight. But on Culloden Moor the ground was flat, and most of the Jacobite army was exhausted from their long retreat from England. The Jacobite leaders were quarreling among themselves, and many of the clansmen had been forced to fight against their own inclination by their chiefs, dragged from their beds, threatened with eviction or worse. The English were well seasoned and well armed and outnumbered them. Maclean knew that if he fought, he and his men would die before they’d taken one step forward.

“And then he got the message he’d been waiting for. One sentence, in a different hand, is scrawled across the bottom of Maclean’s note.
Tell him denied. O’Sullivan.
The note to Lord George Murray reached the incompetent O’Sullivan instead, and the denial must have been passed on verbally to Maclean by some subordinate.

“How you must have hated that,” she murmured, as if Maclean were standing in front of her. “Being told by O’Sullivan to stay put despite what you knew would happen. Being ignored by Lord George Murray, when it was his request that brought you all this way. Certain death, Maclean. You didn’t want that, you refused to accept it.” She sat up straighter. “Maybe that could explain what you did next.”

Death?
Maclean had managed to move the mug, but that seemed paltry compared to the agony in his head. Was it at Culloden that he had died? Was this the great battle that he knew he had been a part of? Had his men also died in the cold and the mud? Were those the lives he was responsible for losing? But it didn’t seem to fit; it didn’t seem right.

“That’s it, isn’t it? It wasn’t cowardice that drove you to the English camp that night. You wanted to save your men, save your people from the repercussions you knew would eventually come. You made a bargain not to fight if you were allowed safe passage—”

The mug shook.

Bella stared at it, fascinated and frightened, but with a growing sense of dizzy excitement.
Was
it Maclean? Was he here, listening to her, and communicating with her in the only way he could?

“I’m not judging you,” she tried, sitting tense upon her chair. “You were a man of your times, and you were no follower of Bonnie Prince Charlie. I understand your real loyalty, your real duty, was to your own. Freeing Scotland from English rule sounded like a nice idea and perhaps you’d been seduced into it for a time, but now your eyes were opened. You…eh…made a bargain with the—”

The mug skittered several inches along the desktop, tilting dangerously. Bella put her fingers over it, to keep it from falling, and then pulled her hand back with a gasp. She’d felt a shock, the same sort of zing she’d gotten when she jumped up to answer the phone yesterday.

“Are you saying that you didn’t make a bargain with the English?” she said tentatively.

The mug was still and silent.

Bella took a deep breath. “Okay. You didn’t make any bargains, you just…um, left, and led your men home again to—”

The mug shook ominously. Bella gasped and jumped up, backing away. The skeptical side of her brain was telling her she needed treatment, immediately, but the other side, the side that believed in the unbelievable, was urging her on.

“Then what?” she cried out to the empty room. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Look, I have this…this…” Frantically she scrabbled among her papers and found what she was searching for. “It’s a memoir, written by one of the Macdonalds, who left the same night. He remembered you, Maclean. He and his men walked with yours for miles. He says…where is it…here! He says,
Their chief said he thought the whole affair was sheer bloody madness and he wanted no further part in it.
You didn’t fight at Culloden. You made the best decision for your men and took them home.”

Maclean ground his teeth. He’d remembered something vital and now the bloody woman wouldn’t listen to him. She might be right, he might have gone home anyway, he was far too pragmatic to let his men be slaughtered for a dream, but he knew now he hadn’t deserted. Lord George Murray had come to him, late, and they had talked. “Go home,” he’d said, his handsome face grim. “I’m sorry, Morven, that I ever drew you into this mess.”

“I remember it,” he said to Bella, shaken, triumphant. “I
remember
it!”

“It was a long way across the mountains and the glens,” Bella murmured wistfully, almost as if she’d been there.

Aye, it was a long way. His head hurt, but he pushed through the throbbing ache and found he was drawing up more memories. Like water from a deep, deep well. Memories of walking, of exhaustion and desperation, of cheering his men with talk of Loch Fasail and the welcome awaiting them there from their wives and children. Not his wife and children, of course. Not Ishbel…. Once he had hoped, but by the time of Culloden he knew with a bleak certainty that such happiness could never be for him.

He frowned. He had clenched his hands down at his sides. There was something else, something more, something dreadful….

“Tell me, woman,” he said hoarsely. “What comes next? Tell me the worst, Bella.”

But she was still twittering on about Culloden. “You would not fight the English if it meant the death of your clansmen. You put your men, your people, first. I think that was admirable.”

She meant it. He felt a rush of warmth and gratitude at her words. Any other woman would have run screaming by now, but here she was, still talking to the ghostie. His Bella was brave, no doubt about it. A true Highland chief’s woman.

“That’s why what happened next is so incomprehensible.” Her voice dropped. “It was your fault, Maclean. You brought it on yourself.”

His ears pricked; his heart began to beat with slow hard thuds.

“Brought what on myself, woman? What are ye blathering about? I always protected my people,” but his voice was dull, filled with dread.

The
Fiosaiche
spoke in his head:
So many lives lost unnecessarily, Highlander. You must right the wrong.

Maclean had always thought himself brave, but now he knew that wasn’t so. He was a coward. The truth awaited him, the truth he’d struggled to remember since he first awoke, and now he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to hear. Sick and shaking, he turned and stumbled from the room, barely noticing as he pulled open the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Outside, it was raining, a miserable drizzle that soaked Maclean after a dozen steps. It took a dozen more before he saw the
Fiosaiche
standing waiting for him on the path.

He knew then that his memory had not done her justice. The fiery locks of her hair, the silver fur-lined cloak, the terrible stare of her deep blue eyes.

But he took a step closer, refusing to let her see his fear. He even set his feet apart and rested his hand upon his sword, looking down at her and putting a smile on his lips. Just as he would face any enemy. She was a woman, that was all, a small, insignificant woman….

“You must go back, Highlander,” she said, and for all her slight stature, her voice rang out.

“Och, must I, now,” he retorted. The rain dripped into his eyes, but he noticed it didn’t seem to touch her. She was utterly dry.

“The woman is your doorway to life.”

“She canna see me!” he burst out, his frustration evident.

“Not yet.”

Ah, Jesus, the awfulness of her eyes…. He could barely keep his gaze on hers. There were
things
behind the blue. Serpents, monsters, writhing in a black sea, and an endless dark labyrinth that was horrifyingly familiar. He knew that place. He’d been there. The between-worlds, neither heaven nor hell, where lost souls wandered. Where
he
had wandered until the
Fiosaiche
had chosen him and taken him to the cathedral.

“Why me?” Maclean’s knees were trembling so badly he had to lock them to stay upright.

The
Fiosaiche
smiled and it was worse, because there was no human kindness in that smile, nothing human at all.

“Because I have chosen you, Highlander. I have given you this chance to be the man you were always meant to be. I have indulged myself by taking you under my wing.” Her smile was gone in an instant. Her eyes shone silver as she stared into his. “It has taken years to find the right moment, the right time for you to redeem yourself. The right woman to stand at your side. Do not fail me, Maclean. Do not fail
her
.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

The things in her eyes, the shiny lithe bodies twisting and splashing through the dark sea, churned the water white. Monsters, water-horses, creatures that fed on the flesh of Scotsmen.

“You will be sorry if you do.”

And then, just like the last time, she was gone. Soaring up in the shape of a golden eagle, her wingtip stir
ring his hair as she passed by. He gasped, and she flew into the sky, and in a moment was far above him, vanished through the clouds.

Maclean realized then that he was no longer upright, he had fallen to his knees on the ground. He picked himself up, staggering as if his strength had left him.

He must have struck a stone when he went to his knees because there was a gash and it was bleeding. He touched it with his fingertip and stared at the red blood. Only a living man could bleed. Did that mean he was a living man, or on his way to becoming one?

The
Fiosaiche
’s voice filled his head once more:
Do not fail me, Maclean. Do not fail her
.

“I will not fail,” he said with gritted teeth. “Bella, I will not—”

His head spun, sick and dizzy, and the horrible black shadows flapped at the edges. But he would not back down. Not this time. He grasped at the memory and held on, clutching it tightly though it slithered and squirmed, and dragging it out into the light.