Page 5 of A Scot on the Rocks

The man with the musket swore. “Dunarraidh’s up there.”

Another man crossed himself, then made the sign against evil. Morag’s stories had traveled farther than he’d thought.

Jamie had encouraged the tale of Dunarraidh’s ghost for years, mostly because strangers were less likely to go poking through a ruined castle if they believed something dead was already inhabiting the place. The fact that several women in the village had taken responsibility for improving the story whenever they felt it lacked enough horror had been unexpected but useful.

The exciseman nearest the brush raised his lantern higher as a piece of white cloth snapped suddenly between the trees.

Jamie stared at Morag’s washing, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

The horse nearest the cloth shied hard enough to nearly unseat its rider.

“Christ Almighty.”

“It’s a sheet.”

“Sheets do not move by themselves.”

“They do in the wind.”

“What wind?”

There was, Jamie had to admit, very little wind this fine night.

The men argued for another minute, but courage was losing ground rapidly to superstition, wet boots, and the possibility of spending the night searching an empty hillside.

At last the man in front turned his horse.

“We’ll check the bridge.”

Jamie stayed where he was until the lanterns vanished down the road.

When he returned to Ewan, the other man was sitting on Jamie’s mare looking unimpressed.

“You frightened them with Morag’s washing.”

“I had very little to do with the washing.”

“You were making noises, throwing rocks.” Ewan rolled his eyes. “I was waiting for the wee ghostly wails to start.”

Jamie took the reins from him. “You seem determined to diminish what was, on the whole, a fine piece of work.”

Ewan swung down. “One day they’ll catch ye.”

“Aye.”

“And then?”

Jamie mounted his horse. “Then I expect you’ll tell me you warned me.”

“I will.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

They separated near the crofters’ path. Ewan took the men and the whisky north while Jamie turned toward Dunarraidh.

He should have gone straight home. The rain had soaked through his coat, he hadn’t eaten since midday, and the flask tucked inside his waistcoat needed tasting before Alasdair proclaimed the newest run ready to sell.

Instead, he turned the mare toward a cottage at the edge of the glen. Morag MacLeod lived there with her widowed daughter and young grandson, though lately she spent more time caring for everyone else than admitting she might need a bit of care as well. Robbie had been feverish for three days, and the healer had charged more than the family could easily spare.