The Ghost by Greyson, Maeve (best motivational books to read .txt) 📕

of his belt, along with the three waterskins they had mended as best they could. With his light held high, he retraced his steps. A worrisome foreboding growing stronger with every step. No way in hell could a lass as small as Cadha have triggered that landslide. He had barely reached those chisel marks when stretched to his full height. But if not Cadha that had caused the cave-in, then who? He quickened his pace. The faster he made it outside and found water, the quicker he returned to Brenna. Then they would attempt to make it to the safety of the next cache.

More worries reared their ugly heads, filling his mind with disturbing possibilities. If they had fouled one cache, how could he be certain the others remained intact? The next stockpile he had intended to seek lay deep within the mountain’s core. If they reached it and discovered it, too, had been destroyed, then the trek back out, without food, water, or more torches, would be damn nigh impossible.

He came to the split in the corridors. If he remembered correctly, the new direction narrowed so fiercely a man could scarce draw a full breath as he squeezed through parts of it. At one point, he would need to belly crawl for quite a way. It didn’t matter. He had to get that water and get back to Brenna. She had looked so hopeful when she had helped him lash the mended waterskins to his belt. Three water skins.

He came to a halt and bowed his head. To get all three of the filled waterskins delivered back to her might be an impossible task. The alternate route couldn’t be managed with the bulging skins thrown over his shoulders as he had planned. Tossing the thought aside with a shake of his head, he continued on. He would do what he could and then figure out the rest once reunited with his lady love. Fretting about it now did nothing but make his journey more dangerous with the distractions.

“I refuse to be bested!” He fought the cave, forging onward as quickly as he dared. When the torchlight flickered and danced as though trying to jump from the pitch-soaked rags, it made him smile. Moving air. The exit was near. He held the torch behind him and eased forward, lifting his nose and sniffing. Aye, there it was. Cool, clean air hardly tainted with the cavern’s damp earthiness.

A pale glow teased its way through the darkness, like the softness of dawn peeping through curtains. He thought it might already be nightfall, considering the time it had taken them to cover the first leg of their journey. But it wasn’t full-on dark yet, just well into the gloaming.

He crawled out through a narrow space between the jagged halves of a large boulder, then stretched to his full height and filled his lungs. He would tolerate the cramped confines of the caves when necessary, but that didn’t mean he liked them. A gentle breeze brushed across him like a lover’s caress, bidding him stay awhile and enjoy the balmy weather. But the image of Brenna huddled close to the fire, her face taut with fear, exhaustion, and barely controlled panic urged him onward.

“Get a move on, ye selfish bastard,” he scolded under his breath as he scrabbled sideways across the steep slope. He paused, squinting through the evening mist settling across the mountain like a blanket. Both nightfall and the thickening fog laughed at his torch’s pitiful attempt to cast light any farther than a narrow arc. If he strayed too far from where he exited the caves, he would be hard-pressed to find the opening again until sunrise. The gurgling sound of water dancing across rocks gave him hope. The burn he had in mind didn’t sound that far away. Thank the gods he remembered it from last summer.

The rough ground, washed out and littered with loose pebbles, larger stones, and thick clumps of sedge, slowed his progress. With little help from the torch, he tripped and stumbled like a drunkard. By the time he reached the precious spring, the treacherous landscape had scraped his knees and hands raw. He didn’t care. All that mattered was getting water for Brenna.

After slaking his thirst, he filled the skins and held them aloft, squinting at the mended seams. Without beeswax to seal the stitchery, they had used pine tar residue scraped from the inner sides of the pitch bucket. So far, only a few drops of seepage beaded up through the dark stitches. With any luck, he’d have enough water to sate Brenna’s thirst by the time he made it back. But then they would have to return to the keep for proper supplies and an alternative plan. He wouldn’t risk going any deeper into the mountain with these waterskins. With the one cache fouled and possibly others as well, these caves were no longer a haven. A choice between outwitting the British or the mountain was easy. He would choose the British every time. No one outwitted Ben Nevis.

He lashed the bags together and slung them over his shoulder. The challenge of the narrow passage would be a puzzle he’d figure out when he came to it. So far, the only plan that came to mind was to wrap the skins in his lèine and either push them in front of him or drag them behind as he crawled through the tight spots. After lighting a fresh torch, he tossed the spent one to the ground and kicked dirt over the smoldering end.

Rocks crunched and shifted higher up the mountainside. Magnus dropped into a crouch and strained to see through the soft fogginess of the night. He hoped the sounds were nothing more than a beast searching for its supper. His blazing torch was a dangerous beacon, but if he extinguished it, he’d have but one left dry to make it through the caves. Hopefully, whatever made the noise couldn’t see him any