Page 17 of Taming the Highland Beauty

They entered the secluded Walled Garden, a vibrant tapestry of plants and flowers. Fragrant herbs lined the path, while raised vegetable beds overflowed with healthy greens and delicate blooms, promising sustenance for the MacLeod clan. The land pulsed with a sense of purpose, its connection to the family who had stewarded it for generations as undeniable as the hint of forgotten magic that seemed to linger from the largest trees to the tiniest seeds.

Gille stopped in the centre of the garden, her gaze sweeping the landscape. “This is the ideal location,” she murmured, then gestured for Lady Janet to approach. Lady Janet drifted closer, while Alastair, Tormod, Orrick, Lottie, and Keiran observed from a distance, their faces etched with worry.

The morning dew shimmered at Gille’s feet, and as the ghostly mist surrounding Lady Janet mingled with it, Gille knew it was time to begin. She stepped forward, the chilling mist that made up Lady Janet enveloping her legs. A shiver ran down her spine.

Callum’s hand shot out, grasping her arm. “Are you certain this will work?” he whispered urgently. “Weaving her memories with . . . dew?”

Gille met his worried gaze and nodded. “The morning dew holds the essence of the dreams, whispers on the breeze, fragments of forgotten moments. It will aid me in piecing together Lady Janet’s past.”

“But won’t it further deplete your own life force?”

Gille offered a reassuring smile. “Without this knowledge, I will have no life left in six days. I accept that danger.”

A faint, mournful echo drifted through the garden. I will not harm her, Lady Janet’s voice promised.

Callum released Gille’s arm and stepped back.

I am ready, Lady Janet’s voice echoed once more.

Gille’s gaze locked with Lady Janet’s. “Is there a specific memory that feels fragmented?”

“Aye.”

“Excellent. Focus on that memory and try to hold on to it.” Gille reached out to a nearby foxglove, her finger brushing against a spiderweb, collecting a glistening dewdrop. She brought the dew to Lady Janet’s incorporeal form. The mist seemed to absorb the droplet, and as it did, Gille closed her eyes, allowing her own memories to surface. Memories of her mother, Pearl, teaching her an ancient language, a language as old as the trees themselves. Gille whispered the near-forgotten words.

A collective gasp rippled through the group. Gille opened her eyes to see Lady Janet’s form flicker, solidifying for a moment. Gille gathered more dew, closing her eyes once more and allowing Lady Janet’s memories to flow through her own thoughts.

A vision of Alastair and Gwendolyn standing at the altar in the chapel, exchanging their wedding vows, materialised. The image wavered, threatening to vanish, but Gille reached out, weaving the dew around it, mending the fractured memory.

“Another memory,” she urged the ghost.

Another image flickered into view, that of Tormod and Fiona, wrapped in each other’s arms before the Samhain fire. A bell tolled as midnight approached. Then the memory began to dissolve, until Gille wove it back together with another dewdrop. The entire MacLeod family came into focus, smiling at Lady Janet. When silence settled, Tormod smiled. “It seems you are not quite ready to leave us, Mother.”

Lady Janet’s smile echoed his sentiment. I suppose I am not.

Lady Janet’s smile was genuine and solid now, but Gille could feel the immense strain on her own energy. “Perhaps one more memory,” she encouraged the ghost.

Gille plunged back into the swirling mist, her mind reeling. A flash of grey fur vanished before she could grasp it. Then, a gnarled beech tree, ancient and imposing, materialised in the depths of the forest. A heart-wrenching cry shattered the stillness, morphing into a bird’s song. Gull or eagle, it was lost in the whirlwind. A glistening seal, a flash of red fur—a deer perhaps? The images bombarded her, a fragmented tapestry woven with urgency. What story were they trying to tell?

A jolt of pain ripped through Gille as the multi-coloured images continued to flash before her eyes, and Gille cried out. Strong arms yanked her back, pulling her out of the swirling mist and into the cool morning air.

“Gille.” Callum’s voice was laced with worry as he held her close. “Are you well?”

Gille gasped for breath, her gaze flickering back to Lady Janet. The ghost’s form shimmered, wavering between translucent and almost solid. “I need to go back,” Gille forced out, her voice raspy. “There is something important in those memories.”

Callum’s grip loosened as worry etched his face. “Be careful, Gille,” he murmured before releasing her. She stepped back into the swirling mist that shrouded Lady Janet.

Images flickered before Gille’s unblinking eyes. A young woman’s laughter, bright and joyful, echoed across the shimmering waters of the loch. A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes as a young boy frolicked in the water, splashing his arms with abandon. Then he suddenly vanished beneath the surface followed by the flick of a seal’s fin then tail. The scene abruptly shifted, and a wave of fear washed over Gille from Lady Janet’s form.

A feverish child. A mother’s raw desperation clawed at Gille. A dark-haired man materialised, his voice laced with fury and blame. Madness flickered in his eyes as he loomed over Lady Janet, who stood protectively in front of their ailing child. The child . . . those eyes . . . unmistakably Callum’s.

The memory dissolved, replaced by a poignant scene by the loch. Selkie skins lay abandoned on the shore, their wearers, beautiful women, vanished. A gasp tore from Lady Janet’s spectral form, her hand flying to her head. Lottie . . . The sound, a whisper, as a torrent of emotions swirled within the mist.

Gille reached out, her touch a beacon of comfort amidst the storm. The memory flickered back . . . a struggle by the loch, a stolen sealskin—light coloured with dark spots—and a desperate flight into the woods. Before it could vanish, Gille wove the memory with a dewdrop, anchoring it to Lady Janet’s form.

A choked sob racked the ghost. Shame and regret pulsed in the swirling mist. I hid it, Lady Janet confessed, her voice a mere tremor of sound. Near the knotted beech tree, deep in the forest. I . . . I needed her. Callum needed her.

The weight of the revelation pressed down on Gille. Callum, the man who had cared for her with such tenderness last night, the man whose eyes mirrored those of the child in the memory, was somehow connected to the stolen sealskin. A pang of fear twisted her gut, but it was quickly overshadowed by a fierce determination. She would not let Callum lose his mother, nor would she let Lottie remain trapped.