Haunted Warrior Page 11

  The boat, named Josephine, according to the picture frame, was at anchor in Pennard Bay. Her crewmen stood or sat near the harbor wall, each man wearing light trousers, a dark vest, and a seaman’s cap. Their faces appeared well-­scrubbed, their hair neatly combed, as if each man hoped to look his best for the photographer.

  One man stood out from the rest.

  And not because a large white dog with one black eye and ear sat beside him, its gaze full of adoration as he looked up at his master.

  Beneath the old-­fashioned clothes and hairstyle, the man could’ve been Graeme MacGrath.

  And unlike his fellow fishermen, he was smiling. Although his smile was for the dog by his side and not aimed at the camera.

  Kendra’s brow knit as she stepped closer to the wall, leaning in to peer hard through the picture glass. The likeness was astounding. She angled her head, reading the inscription twice.

  There could be no mistake.

  The little plate on the frame stated the men were the crew of the trawler Josephine, and dated the photo to the long-­ago year of 1875.

  Still…

  Something didn’t seem right to Kendra. She could feel the fine hairs lifting on her nape and sensed stirrings of doubt that prickled her skin.

  “Looks just like him, eh?”

  She jumped, wheeling about to find Iain Garry standing directly behind her.

  “It’s amazing, yes.” She saw no point in pretending not to know what he meant.

  “Graeme aye laughs about it.” The innkeeper rocked back on his heels, his gaze flicking to the photograph. “Thon trawlerman is your lad’s great-­great-­grandfather. His name was also Graeme.”

  Kendra bit her lip, remembering her gaffe with Janet.

  She understood Graeme’s reasons for wanting people to think they were a pair. She wouldn’t break his trust by telling the innkeeper Graeme wasn’t her lad. In truth, she wished that he was.

  She also glanced away from Iain to look again at the crew of the Josephine. Even to her inexpert eyes, she could tell the photograph was genuine. It appeared as old as the little brass plate on the bottom of the frame said.

  And it wasn’t just the family resemblance that jumped out at her.

  It was more.

  It was the strong bond between Graeme the trawlerman and his dog, a deep love that even hundreds of years and grainy, faded paper couldn’t diminish. With her heightened sensitivity, Kendra could feel their connection even through the cold glass of the picture frame.

  Their love was so strong, it hit her like a blast of energy. Her heart raced, heat pumping through her.

  Iain Garry didn’t seem to notice.

  He did reach to tap the picture glass. “Your Graeme and his great-­great-­grandpappy have more in common than looks and a name. All the men in that family love dogs. Graeme’s no different with his Jock, aye? You ne’er see one without the other.” He smiled, lowering his hand.

  “That’s true.” Kendra decided to play it safe.

  Her mind was racing.

  Something told her she shouldn’t wonder too deeply why Graeme’s resemblance to his forebear bothered her so much. But it did. And the chills slipping up and down her spine let her know she needed answers.

  She just hoped she could handle them. She was already at a disadvantage.

  Graeme and his dog were winning her heart.

  Chapter 7

  “Have you known Graeme long?”

  Iain showed no sign of returning to his inn-­keeping duties. Far from it, he folded his arms and looked at Kendra, waiting expectantly. And the friendly expression on his red-­cheeked face made it impossible for her to brush off his question.

  Too bad she didn’t know how to answer him.

  So she hedged, tucking her hair behind an ear and pretending to examine the photograph of the Josephine trawlermen and the other old pictures. They crowded the entry hall, grouped in collections. And they offered a viable excuse for her to peer at the wall.

  With luck, the innkeeper would take the subtle hint and return to his public room and the lovely, polished bar awaiting him there.

  “Did you and Graeme just meet, then?” He proved what she’d always heard about Highland Scots being exceptionally curious people.

  Pennard wasn’t anywhere near the Highlands, but Iain’s soft, musical voice gave away his heritage. Like Graeme, rich Highland blood flowed through his veins, giving him the oh-­so-­typical burr.

  Kendra inhaled and looked away from the photographs, turning to face Iain. Instinct told her he wouldn’t go away until she answered him.

  “I’ve known Graeme a while.” She just didn’t say how short that while had been. “But this is my first time to visit Pennard.”

  That was true.

  And it seemed to please the innkeeper, because he beamed.

  “Then you’ll know Graeme’s family has been here for centuries.” There was pride in his voice. “They once ruled these parts, the MacGraths. Graeme keeps to himself and doesn’t speak much of his illustrious forebears. But”—­he paused, looking back at the closed outside door—­“he’s surely told you about Castle Grath?”

  “Of course,” Kendra opted for a white lie.

  She also gave him her most confident smile.

  But her mind filled with the image of Graeme on the high dunes at Balmedie Beach. His stance had struck her as almost territorial. There’d been something possessive about his attitude, as if he owned every grain of sand on the broad, sweeping strand. A man who believed each blade of grass on the dunes should bend to his will. Such thoughts were fanciful, but they’d come to her at the time.

  And hadn’t Janet called him the MacGrath?

  Kendra took another deep breath, trying to still her racing mind. If Graeme was some kind of laird or chieftain, he hadn’t said a word. Nor had he mentioned anything about an ancestral castle.

  Not that it was any of her business.

  But Iain was looking at her as if it was. “There’s a photo of Grath by the door.” He headed that way, leaving her little choice but to follow. “Here she is, in all her fallen glory,” he announced, looking at a large, framed black-­and-­white picture of a gaunt, ruined tower. “No one has lived there since medieval times. The MacGraths aye seemed to fight on the wrong side of battles in those days, and they made a lot of powerful enemies because of it.”

  “They were rough times, I know.” Kendra’s mind flashed again to Balmedie. When she’d first glimpsed Graeme on the dunes, for a beat she’d been sure he was wearing a plaid, much like the Highland chieftains of old. She also would’ve sworn he’d had a long sword strapped to his side.

  Such a weapon would suit him.

  The image made her pulse race. He would’ve been a magnificent medieval warrior. Proud, bold, and fearless in battle.

  Iain tapped the picture glass, indicating Grath’s ruined tower. “Some say it was Alexander Stewart, son of Robert II and known as the Wolf of Badenoch, who did the most damage to Grath, leaving the castle uninhabitable. That would’ve been round about”—­he rubbed his chin, thinking—­“the late 1300s.

  “Thon Stewart was a right troublemaker, rampaging far and wide if the mood took him.” He paused, nodding and smiling at two locals who’d chosen that moment to leave the pub restaurant and walk past on their way to the door. “Whoever slighted Grath”—­Iain turned back to Kendra—­“left a romantic ruin, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It is that.” She stepped closer to the photograph, agreeing completely.

  Who wouldn’t?

  Little more than a shell, the tower stood etched against a stormy sky. Once circular, only a crescent of age-­worn stone remained. Three tall windows, lined vertically, showed the tower had boasted at least four floors. Traces of a winding stair could be seen near the top window, the shallow steps leading to nowhere.

  “Where is it?” She traced the barely recognizable stair with a finger. “I didn’t see a ruin anything like this on the drive from Aberdeen.”


  “You wouldn’t have.” Iain was looking just as intently at the photograph as she was. “Castle Grath is farther along the coast, a bit beyond the headland to west of here. The high bluff hides the tower. You’d have seen it if you’d driven on past Pennard.”

  “I’m sure Graeme will take me there.” It didn’t seem likely, but she couldn’t help hoping he would.

  The ruin was just her cuppa.

  Half-­standing walls, one holding the outline of a long-­disused fireplace, stretched away from either side of the crumbling tower, proving Castle Grath must’ve been impressive in its day.

  Above all, the ruin was spectacularly situated on the edge of a cliff, high above the crashing sea. And whoever had taken the photograph had used an artist’s eye to capture the moody setting at its most magnificent. The dark sky boiled with low, angry clouds, while the rough sea gleamed, each long breaker bearing a crest of white. Somewhere the sun must’ve pierced a cloud because the castle’s silhouette appeared limned by eerie silver light.

  The play of shadows and darkness and the strange luminosity gave the picture a sense of the surreal. The longer Kendra studied it, the more she expected to see the motion of the sea. She could also imagine the clouds moving, drifting past the tower toward the distant horizon.

  “Wow.” It was all she could think to say.

  The innkeeper didn’t look surprised. “Aye, so say many folk seeing Grath for the first time. Wait till Graeme takes you there. It has an even greater impact when you see the ruin up close.

  “There’s more to the site than the photo shows.” He smiled, nodding again to another local just leaving the pub restaurant. “If you know what to look for, there are piles of grass-­grown rubble that were once the earthwork defenses of an earlier fortress.”

  “Really?” Kendra lifted her brows, hoping he wouldn’t guess she’d instantly recognize the grassy lumps and weed-­grown mounds at such a site. He clearly believed he was introducing her to things she didn’t know. She didn’t want to lessen his pleasure in the telling.

  “Och, aye.” Iain bobbed his head. “The castle was protected by the promontory on three sides, but there’s a semicircular ditch that might’ve once been a moat. And the well is easy to spot even though it’s been filled with rocks and debris over the years. The ruins of kitchens, storerooms, and other outbuildings are also scattered about, some quite well preserved. Most exciting of all”—­he leaned toward her—­“is a stretch of wall with a few pillared archways. Graeme once told me he thinks they must’ve been part of a covered walk to Grath’s medieval chapel.”

  Kendra was sure that was true.

  As the cliff-­top ruin’s site exposed it to the fierceness of the elements, long-­ago MacGraths would’ve appreciated shelter from wind and rain when they made the journey from the keep to their chapel.

  Kendra flashed another glance at the picture, imagining Graeme striding out from the tower door on just such a stormy afternoon as when the photo had been taken. He wouldn’t have been troubled by the day’s wild weather, she was sure. In fact, she suspected he’d love the rush of the wind, the heavy smell of rain in the air.

  He’d embrace the wildness.

  She knew that as surely as she could still taste his kiss.

  Her pulse quickened on the admission, a sudden wash of heat blooming on her cheeks. But it was true. His kiss had branded her, doing so much more than saving her from Gavin Ramsay’s oily come-­on.

  Even now, speaking about something as innocent as a cliff-­top castle ruin with a talkative but kindly Scottish innkeeper, she could hardly think of anything except how badly she wanted Graeme to kiss her again.

  Actually, she wanted more.

  And that threw her completely. She’d always kept a good grip on her emotions. Her love life—­she managed not to wince—­had been anything but wondrous in recent years. She just didn’t have the time and energy for a relationship, her interests always elsewhere.

  Until now…

  When she found herself attracted to a Scotsman and in a situation where so many barriers stood between them that she doubted she could tear them down even if she had Herculean strength.

  She made it a rule not to break her word.

  Zack and Ghostcatchers had her solemn oath never to reveal her assignments. Doing so could cost them thousands in lost contracts. Worse, any disruptions in her work could risk the much-­needed solace for the disgruntled spirits she sought to help.

  A romance with Graeme was out of the question.

  Hoping Iain wouldn’t see her discomfiture, she assumed her most carefree expression. Then she tucked her hair behind an ear in an annoying habit she’d often tried to curb, failing every time.

  “Did Graeme take the picture?” She could tell the photo held passion. Whoever the photographer was, he was more than just talented. She could pick up the deep emotion captured in the photo.

  “Nae, he didn’t snap it.” Iain shook his head. “Janet Murray made that picture. You’ve met her.” He glanced at the kitchen door, the one with the PRIVATE sign. “It was about ten years ago, I’m thinking. She used to dabble in photography back then.”

  “Janet?” Kendra’s eyes rounded.

  “Aye, herself and no other.” Again, a note of pride threaded the innkeeper’s words. “She was a bold lass in those days, afraid of nothing. You can see she was up there on a dark, windy day. Gales can rise then, blowing a body right off the cliffs before you even know what hit you.” He nodded sagely. “And the cliff path is dangerous in any weathers, steep and slippery as it is. Yet Janet went every day.”

  Kendra listened with interest. “She must like hill walking.”

  “She loved her husband.” Iain shot another glance at the kitchen door.

  Kendra blinked, not missing the past tense. “Was he a MacGrath?”

  “Nae, Dod Murray didn’t have a whit to do with the MacGraths or their castle.” Iain lowered his voice, this time glancing at the open door to the inn’s public room. The buzz of many male voices proved the Laughing Gull was still enjoying a full house. “Dod was a fisherman.” Iain returned his attention to her. “A right good man he was, too. Hardworking, few words, but a big heart, salt-­of-­the-­earth type, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” Kendra smiled. He could’ve just described her father. “But I don’t understand the connection to the Grath ruin. Or”—­she spoke quietly—­“is Janet’s husband buried there?”

  It didn’t seem likely.

  “Ach, nae, he’s not up there.” Iain shook his head. “Dod’s part of the North Sea now, God rest him. His ashes were strewn on the waves. Janet hasn’t been up to Grath since he died. She used to go so she could see his boat coming in on the tide.

  “Janet’s father went down with a herring boat not long after she married Dod.” Iain’s face grew serious. “She ne’er forgot that. It put the fear on her, it did. Dod tried to talk sense into her, but she wouldn’t have any of it, insisting she enjoyed the climb and that was all. Folk hereabouts knew better, of course.”

  “What a tragic story.” Kendra had a terrible thought. “I hope her husband didn’t die at sea.”

  To her relief, Iain shook his head. “He suffered a heart attack. And”—­he straightened then, once again the cheery innkeeper—­“I shouldn’t be filling your head with sad tales when you’re just arrived and surely wanting nothing more than your bed.

  “I don’t want Graeme fashed with me because I kept you from your beauty sleep.” He winked, already starting for the door into the public room. “Not that a lass as bonnie as you needs the like.”

  Kendra looked after him, feeling her face color.

  Above all, she felt bad for thinking of Janet as so soured. From what she’d heard, the older woman had reason to be less than jovial. Her devotion to her husband and the emotion evident in her photograph of the ruin proved that she’d once been a woman of passion.

  Kendra’s heart clenched for Janet, a shiver slipping down he
r spine as she looked out the window beside the Laughing Gull’s entry door.

  Moonlight filtered through the clouds, silvering the narrow road and the marina just beyond. It was another world out there and one that beckoned to her strongly, just as the strange and mysterious had done all her life.

  And—­she glanced at her wristwatch—­at a very early hour, Graeme would be calling for her, beckoning her in an entirely different way.

  Her heart raced at the thought.

  Good sense told her that when he arrived, the last thing she wanted was to greet him with puffy eyes. She didn’t wear morning well. She also hoped to use the time before breakfast to take a look at the deserted cottage a few doors down from the inn. Experience had taught her to visit such sites only when well rested.

  So she tossed one last glance toward the open door to the public room and then the closed kitchen door before she hurried from the entry hall. She took the narrow stairs just as swiftly, glad that the carpet runner dampened her footsteps. It wasn’t likely that another guest would hear her passage and put his head round the door, but she’d traveled often enough to know better than to push her luck.

  Some people just loved to talk.

  She wasn’t in the mood for such conviviality.

  And as she let herself into her small-­but-­tasteful room, she wanted only to shower and then dive into her bed, pulling the duvet over her head. Her wishes vanished like a pricked balloon when the room’s atmosphere hit her. Wary, she closed the door, chills coming over her.

  Something wasn’t right.

  The bed had been neatly turned down, as Janet had said. And the promised night dram waited on the bedside table, the tiny bottle and spotlessly clean glass surely a treat for those who enjoyed whisky. There was also a small packet of shortbread, which was much more to her liking. Her suitcase still stood beside the blue plaid chair by the window. And someone, most likely Janet, had thoughtfully lit the night lamp in the room’s teeny bathroom.

  Her toiletries stood on the mirrored dresser, exactly where she’d placed them.

  The hospitality tray also hadn’t been touched. The electric teakettle, tea packets, and extra packets of shortbread—­all looked as they had when she’d first entered the room. Even the tray’s jar of hot chocolate mix remained where she’d left it after making herself a cup earlier.