Chapter Fourteen
Darach didnae ken how long he stood at the window after Tessa and Emily drove away. The empty cavernous house seemed to mock the hollowness inside him. He and this old place were two of a kind. Both, remnants of the past. At least Tessa wanted to breathe new life into the boards and crevices of this old dwelling. She had no such wish, for him.
I want you gone by the time we get back.
Her words played over and over in his mind, but he could see no way to reverse them. How could he fight back, reach for what he wanted, when his mortal realm of existence was about to expire? Though he bristled against it, he sighed in resignation and forced his thoughts toward the one chore remaining before he could fulfill her wish.
Resolutely, he walked toward the stairs. He couldnae go while the ghost remained. If Darach was to leave, so must the tormented visage, who, like he and the house, belonged to the past. One way or another, willing or no’, Jack would leave, before him, or wi’ him, but hewouldgo.
At the base of the staircase, Darach paused. Why bother to search the blackguard out when he could coax the apparition to him? Especially with this troublesomeweightinesshanging over him. It reminded him of the despair he’d fallen into during all those centuries on the moor, but exaggerated somehow, by the pulse and flow of breath and life.
He sucked in a huge breath, preparing to yell loud enough to be heard in every nook and cranny of the old house, fueled it with all the pent-up vexation inside him and bellowed. “Are ye goin’ tae hide forever in the shadows, ye bloodless coward, or are ye man enough tae face me? Right here. Right now!”
An instant rush of air lifted the ends of Darach’s hair as a funnel of yellow light spun in front of him, slowly morphing into Jack’s belligerent form. The specter crossed his arms over his massive chest and reared his head back. “Ye dare tae challenge me, mortal? ’Twill be yer final time.”
Darach snorted. “My mortality is as much an illusion as yer reason for clinging tae this house for three bloody centuries. ’Twould appear we’ve both been hangin’ on tae notions we’ve drummed up in our heads, that simply arenae true, and ne’er will be.”
“Och!” The ghost challenged. “And just what would that be?”
“Look, Jac—” Darach stopped and shot him a bold look. “Yer true name, I suspect, is William Guthrie, is it no’?”
Stunned, the ghost took a step back, exchanging bluster for wariness. “How did ye ken that?”
“I recall some Guthries fighting with the The Macphersons, at Culloden. And since ye’re wearing their colors, I assume ye’re one o’ ’em?” Before the ghost recovered from his shock, Darach continued. “I fought wi’ Glengarry that day, left o’ the front line.”
“Ye lie,” Guthrie snarled. “That cannae be true. Ye cannae have been there and still be standin’ afore me, alive and breathin’ all these centuries, since. No’ unless ye’re a sorcerer!”
“I speak true, William. Iwasthere. Died there.” Darach yanked the top of his longshirt open far enough to reveal where the musket ball had entered his chest. “But, I learned yer name from the book wee Emily found in the garret, the one ye told me tae take with us. ’Twas the diary of Isla Lochridge.”
“Mistress Lochridge?” Guthrie whispered, eyes wide.
“Aye. She made mention of yer wife, Keita, and yer unborn babe. And ye, off tae join the Jacobites.”
Guthrie’s face was a mask of shifting emotions. “Tis true? She wrote of Keita?”
Darach nodded toward the library. “Ye can read the words yerself. The book is in there.”
“I wanted tae come back,” Guthrie pressed. “Ididcome back.AfterI’d died,afterI’d refused tae cross over. But they were gone, all o’ ’em. ’Twas naught left but the freshly carved marker in the garden.” He hung his head. “If only I’d been able tae return tae her. Or, no’ gone a’tall.”
“ ’Tis what I’ve come tae tell ye, Guthrie. ’Twould no’ have made a difference if ye’d stayed, or even if ye’d come back alive. Yer wife tripped and fell down the stairs. ’Twas an accident that could just as easily have happened, with ye right here tae home. ’Tis no one tae blame. No’ her. No’ ye.”
“A fall? I…I could’ve been with her. Comforted her. Told her how I loved her. Said…goodbye.”
“Nae, laddie. She wouldnae have heard ye.”
Darach watched Guthrie pace, wring his hands as he processed this new information. Darach knew what ’twas like to think one way for centuries, only to find out ye’d been wrong the entire time. ’Twas no’ an easy transition to make.
He took a step forward, unsure what triggered his sudden need to help the ghost find his rightful place in eternity. Mayhap because he kenned Guthrie had suffered enough, paid whatever dues he might have owed for any transgressions he’d made. The poor devil, contrary as he was, had waited long enough.
In that moment, like a bolt from the heavens, Darach realized his goal was no longer about freeing the house of the ghost, but freeing Guthrie from his self-imposed prison. But how to convince him?
“ ’Tis time ye put this house and its sad events behind ye. Stop hiding from yer perceived mistakes. Cross-over, man! Find yer wife and child. Surely, they wait for ye.”
Guthrie turned tormented eyes on Darach. “Where?” He lifted his huge arms in a gesture of pointlessness. “Even if I could, where in all of eternity, would I find her? I thought… I thought if I stayed here, if I waited...”
“William, if ’twas any way shecouldhave come, why would she make ye wait these long centuries?”
Darach’s last words, though softly spoken, seemed to finally have an impact. He could almost see Guthrie’s stunned acceptance. His entire countenance sagged, overcome. “I’ve…I’ve truly wasted…all this time?”
