Haunted Warrior Page 13

  Frowning, he reached to rub the back of his neck. Outside the rain had stopped and the night was still. All he heard now was the sound of the sea and the swish of Jock’s tail across the kitchen floor.

  Or so he thought, until he caught the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on pebbled rock.

  Someone was walking the shore.

  And the prickles on his nape warned that it wasn’t anyone who should be there.

  Jock’s low growl said the same.

  “You will stay here.” Graeme flashed a stern look at his friend as he carefully closed the Grimoire and returned the tome to its hiding place.

  If one of Ramsay’s followers was looking for ­trouble—­

  he could tell from the vibrations in the air that it wasn’t Gavin himself—­the last thing he wanted was to be worrying about Jock when he confronted the intruder.

  “There’s no time to say a sealing spell o’er the flagstone,” Graeme spoke as he worked the stone into place over the cavity in the floor. His words would soothe Jock’s pride. “You’ll need to guard the book’s hiding place until I return.”

  Jock gave another low rumble in his chest.

  But he did leave his post by the kitchen door to dutifully sit beside the stone flag. And much to Graeme’s relief, the dog held his head high, assuming a look that showed he felt important.

  “This won’t take long.” Graeme rubbed Jock’s ears and then took a well-­honed dirk from the drawer set into the oak table.

  It was a drawer that even the most curious eyes wouldn’t notice and that only opened to his touch.

  “Dinnae leave that spot, laddie.” Graeme tucked the dirk beneath his belt. The blade was just as unique as the secret drawer, and he hoped he wouldn’t need to make use of its capabilities.

  He stepped out into the night, not bothering to will his footsteps into silence as he strode along the side of his cottage toward the road.

  Whoever was on the shore knew he’d join them.

  As soon as he reached Harbour Street, he could feel the eagerness to greet him. Two heartbeats rippled the air, and the men’s aggression was dark and palpable, staining the night’s peace.

  Graeme’s jaw set as he crossed the road, scanning the empty foreshore. The bay was calmer now, the water lapping gently on the pebbled strand. A glance to the far end of the village showed low clouds drifting over the cliffs and a few stars high above. Pennard slept, the tiny fishing hamlet seeming so far removed from the hectic pace of the outside world.

  The tranquillity was an illusion.

  Two dark shadows near the cave at the bay’s edge spoiled the image. They didn’t move and could’ve been night-­blackened fissures in the cliff. But Graeme knew better, and closed in on them with long, sure strides.

  He recognized them as the Fleming brothers, Roddie and Patrick.

  Dressed entirely in black, they were his equal in size. They were also Ramsay’s best fighters, though they should know from their last encounter with Graeme that they’d made a grave error in coming to challenge him again. Their weapons, two-­foot lengths of steel pipe, wouldn’t help them. They were fools to think so.

  Graeme let his gaze flick to the pipes, not bothering to hide his disdain. The Fleming brothers could be glad this wasn’t an age when a man’s foes could be killed with a single sword swipe.

  They did tempt him.

  “Didn’t learn your lesson last time?” Graeme went to stand right in front of them. “Can it be”—­he pulled the leather tie from his ponytail, freeing his shoulder-­length hair—­“you want your faces bloodied again? Or is it broken bones you’re after now?

  “I’ll give you both, gladly.” He shook his head, letting his hair swing menacingly.

  Vikings and many medieval Highland warriors had enjoyed fighting with unbound hair. In his time in that world, it was a tradition Graeme had kept.

  The Flemings narrowed their eyes at him, almost as if they knew.

  Graeme flexed his fingers, eager to lash into them. “You’re brave men, coming here.”

  “We’re walking the strand.” Roddie, the larger of the two, hefted his pipe, slapping the makeshift weapon against his palm. “The Keel is yours, last I heard. You have no claim on the foreshore.”

  Graeme stepped closer, ignoring the pipe. “I have more than that, as you and your master know. Do yourself a favor and go back to the Spindrift and tell him to keep his goons out of my sight.”

  “He’ll gut you, MacGrath.” Roddie spat onto the ground.

  “And you two”—­Graeme looked from one to the other—­“are still bearing the scars from our last fight. Are you really up for another?”

  “Arrogant bastard!” Patrick lunged, swinging his pipe at Graeme’s head.

  Graeme ducked and spun, bringing up his arm to seize Patrick’s wrist in a fierce grip. The pipe fell from his fingers, clattering onto the shingle. Graeme kicked the pipe into the surf, then thrust Patrick aside, hauling back to smash Roddie in the nose when he roared and leapt forward to defend his brother.

  “Yeowww!” Roddie staggered backward, his pipe also slipping from his grasp as he dropped to his knees at the water’s edge. “You’ll pay for this, MacGrath!” He glared at Graeme from hate-­filled eyes, one hand clutched to his nose, blood streaming through his fingers.

  Recovered, Patrick scrambled for his brother’s length of pipe. Cursing, he bent to grab the weapon, but Graeme was on him in a beat, yanking him up by the back of his jacket collar. He stiffened when Graeme whipped him around, defiance rolling off him.

  “You’ll no’ be rid o’ us so easy, seal man.” Patrick jerked free, tugging his jacket in place. “Next time you’ll no’ see or hear us. We’ll—­”

  “You’ll fail every time you come for me.” Graeme stepped back, allowing his magic to give his foes a glimpse of how he’d once been: a weapon-­hung medieval warrior, tough, battle hardened, and terrifying. “Doubt me at your peril. I’ve no’ enjoyed a true fight in a while.”

  Taking his dirk from beneath his belt, he aimed it at Patrick’s belly, his lip curling when the blade lengthened into the razor-­sharp long sword it truly was. By the time its tip touched the other’s man gut, the brand shone like blue fire, and Graeme was smiling.

  But it was a mirthless smile.

  The kind that chilled a man to the marrow—­if he lived long enough to feel the cold.

  Patrick blanched, his eyes going round. He backed away, raising his hands. “What are you, MacGrath?”

  “Nothing you want to mess with.” Graeme flicked his wrist and the glowing brand was no more. But he still held the dirk in his hand.

  And the two brothers’ faces showed they’d had enough for this night.

  “I’ll credit you both for not running.” Graeme nodded in grim acknowledgment as Roddie lurched over to them, still clutching his bloodied nose. “A man willing to face his enemy and fight, even when he’s misguided, is a man who aye deserves respect.”

  His words were met by sullen stares.

  Neither man budged.

  But Graeme clasped his hands behind his back and walked a slow circle around them, knowing nonchalance would irritate them more than aggression.

  His steps also left an impassable barrier, trapping them if they tried to flee before he was done with them. He hoped no further use of his magical skills would be required. Despite Ramsay’s presence, Pennard was peopled by good, salt-­of-­the-­earth folk who didn’t need to learn about worlds and powers far beyond their daily lives.

  “You both ken you cannae beat me.” Graeme stopped before them, folding his arms. “So tell me what brought you here tonight.”

  Angry silence answered him as Patrick flattened his mouth into a hard, tight line. His brother glowered at Graeme from above his red-­dripping fingers, his eyes glinting with resentment.

  Graeme shrugged. “Speak or you’ll be here a while.”

  He didn’t warn them of the guarding circle, knowing Ramsay would’ve informed them of such
interferences.

  The look they exchanged proved him right.

  “Your ma’s a good woman.” Graeme flashed a glance down the waterfront, letting his gaze light on one of Pennard’s more modest cottages. “Do you really want her waking to see her lads standing naked on the foreshore?”

  He lifted a brow on the word naked, letting them know he could arrange the like.

  Willing it so was all that was necessary.

  And as he’d guessed, manly pride won out over stubbornness.

  “Ramsay sent us.” Roddie broke first, his words garbled behind his bloody fingers.

  “That I know.” Graeme lifted a hand, pretending to examine his knuckles.

  When neither brother spoke again, he sent another look down the silent row of Pennard’s houses. This time he focused on a red-­doored cottage where light still flickered behind neat lace curtains.

  Then he looked away again, fixing his attention on Patrick. “I hear you’ve been seeing Lorna Gillespie. She’s a fine lass—­bonnie, honest, and hardworking. What would she think to see you out here, shivering in the dawn and no’ wearing a stitch?”

  Graeme would never allow Lorna or Mrs. Fleming to see such a sight.

  But Roddie and Patrick didn’t need to know that.

  “You’re a bastard, seal man.” Patrick was seething.

  Graeme smiled. “So some have said. Now tell me why Ramsay sent you here. Once you do, I’ll let you go.”

  The brothers exchanged glances again.

  Patrick spoke. “It’s the American.” His answer didn’t surprise Graeme. “Gavin doesn’t believe you’re a pair. He saw her go into the Laughing Gull alone tonight. And”—­he glanced over at Graeme’s lit cottage—­“he wanted us to see if she’d joined you later.”

  “That’s no one’s business.” Anger kicked up inside Graeme, heating his blood. But he kept his face impassive. “Where Kendra sleeps is not Ramsay’s concern. You can tell him she’s mine, for she is.”

  Now, more than ever, he was determined to protect her.

  Another, deeper part of him, sought to make her his in truth. But he ignored that strong yearning and focused his mind on the Fleming brothers, releasing the binding circle he’d cast around them.

  “Tell him”—­he went toe-­to-­toe against them both, fisting his hands in their shirtfronts—­“that if he so much as glances at Kendra, I’ll tear him into so many pieces, even the gulls won’t find enough to fill their bellies with him.”

  Before either man could respond, Graeme spun them around and pressed his forearms against their throats. “Do that now”—­he tightened his grip, making them splutter—­“or you’ll meet a fate as fine as Ramsay’s. I wouldn’t mind seeing you choking on your own blood….”

  He didn’t finish; just took his arms from their necks and then gave each a hard shove. “Now be gone and dinnae forget my words.”

  They reeled, stumbling before they righted themselves. Then, without a backward glance, they bolted from the strand and tore off down Harbour Street, their hurrying footsteps echoing along the waterfront.

  Graeme stayed where he was, looking after them. Only when the night stilled again did he cross the road and go back inside the Keel.

  Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be staying there long.

  Roddie and Patrick posed no further threat that night. But Ramsay would be furious. His temper might even send him straight to the Laughing Gull. It was a possibility Graeme couldn’t allow.

  He’d have to go there first.

  And if he didn’t want to frighten Kendra at this late hour, there was only one way to do it.

  And so a very short while later, Graeme found himself back inside the best room of his cottage. He sat exceptionally still on his not-­too-­comfortable sofa, trying to ignore Jock’s contented snores. Of course, the dog slept curled on the worn and welcoming armchair beside the hearth fire. Jock’s black-­and-­white body took up the cozy chair’s entire soft-­cushioned seat.

  Graeme didn’t mind.

  His dog deserved a good life.

  Each time Jock returned to him, he made certain their new round together topped the one before. Knowing his friend was happy was one of Graeme’s few pleasures in his own oft-­times trying, seven-­hundred-­years-­and-­a day lifetime. Banning Jock from the armchair was the last thing he’d do.

  Thwarting Gavin Ramsay, on the other hand, was a desire that burned in his blood.

  The craven’s face flashed before his mind’s eye and he fisted his hands, forgetting he’d been trying to keep them relaxed at his sides.

  Ramsay did get to him.

  He was an enemy who took what he wanted, when he wanted it, and always with total disregard to the consequences. And now he’d set his sights on Kendra. The thought curdled Graeme’s liver. It also made him again wish he and Ramsay could’ve clashed in days when they’d have faced each other in a medieval shield wall.

  Graeme would’ve had done with his foe quickly, using a short ax to hook away his shield and then ramming a stabbing sword right into the bastard’s throat.

  As things stood…

  There were still ways to get the better of a fiend like Ramsay.

  And as far as Graeme knew, the other man hadn’t yet mastered the fine and magical art of astral projection. Graeme excelled at sending his conscious mind elsewhere when need arose. He was skilled in several highly effective techniques. His favorite was a method of dual consciousness that allowed him to visit other places while never leaving his sitting room.

  It was how he most often kept an eye on his ancestral home, Castle Grath.

  Physically walking around the ruin was a painful experience, as being there reminded him too strongly of those he’d loved and lost over the centuries.

  Tonight he’d use the awakened dreaming state, as dual consciousness was sometimes called, to visit Kendra’s room at the Laughing Gull. Such a projection was too intrusive for his liking, but necessary under the circumstances. At least she wouldn’t know he was there.

  Yet if Ramsay or one of his henchmen harangued her, he would see and could be there in minutes.

  And then…

  Memories of long-­ago shield walls flooded his mind. For a beat, he could almost feel the straps of a shield on his left forearm, the leather-­wrapped hilt of a short stabbing sword gripped in his right hand. But he cleared the images from his thoughts and focused instead on the softly glowing slabs of peat piled on his hearth grate.

  He also took several deep breaths, willing himself to completely relax.

  Years of experience had taught him that he’d need to concentrate on the fire for at least a quarter of an hour before his mind would clear and slow enough for him to enter the required state of deep consciousness. Once there, he’d mentally walk himself out of his cottage. He’d move along the waterfront, slip inside the Laughing Gull Inn, and then head up the stairs to Kendra’s room.

  He didn’t need to know the room number.

  He’d scent her instantly. His senses sharpened when he astral projected, and her signature fragrance would draw him even before he reached the guest floor at the inn. Her overbright aura would also guide him.

  All he had to do was make the journey there.

  Then he was.

  And as so often with his astral wanderings, arriving seemed almost effortless. He’d only had to visualize the path and he was transported instantly. Though he knew the whole magical process took at least a half hour, his prep work and focus time considered.

  Not that it mattered.

  What did was that Kendra slept in the nude.

  Graeme frowned. Seeing her naked was not why he’d come here.

  Sure, it’d been a risk. Sending a goodly portion of his conscious mind into her room at the Laughing Gull in the quietest hours of the night left little doubt that he’d find her slumbering.

  He just hadn’t expected his first glimpse of her to be the sweet curve of her bottom.

  What he’d been prepared to
discover was Ramsay or one of his goons lurking in the inn’s upstairs hallway, watching Kendra’s door. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see the bastards inside her room. It wouldn’t be the first time Ramsay forced himself on a woman, though he always managed to wriggle out of any legal ramifications.

  But his nemesis wasn’t here.

  And he was just glad Kendra wasn’t sleeping on her back. The view was tempting enough. She must’ve had a restless night, because the bed sheets had slipped down, only covering her to midthigh. In another time, another world, he’d have whipped the bedding right off her. He’d have savored every tantalizing inch of her, smoothing his hands along each sleek line and luscious curve of her body, kissing her all the while and making love to her until the sun rose. Even then he’d want more, he was sure.

  He was getting hard just looking at her.

  And he’d fisted his hands so tightly, his knuckles hurt.

  Turning abruptly, he went to the window, keeping his back to her bed. It was not the time for such complications. Never in all his nearly seven hundred years of living had he done anything as foolhardy as come here tonight. Yet he had felt compelled to check on her. He was sure Ramsay had noted her beaconlike aura. If he’d caught wind of her mentioning the ghostly herring fleet in the pub—­and Graeme was certain Ramsay had—­he’d believe he could use her special talents.

  Graeme knew she possessed a supernatural gift.

  Frowning, he shoved a hand through his hair. He stepped closer to the window, looking down at the harbor just across the road from the inn. The tide was running swift, a light chop letting the boats rock at their moorings. Black, glassy water splashed over exposed rocks, glinting darkly in the moonlight. It was still a peaceful night. But the atmosphere in the room behind him crackled, the air picking up the turbulence of his thoughts.

  He shouldn’t have allowed his anger at Ramsay to accompany him. And he sure as hell was out of bounds letting one look at Kendra’s delectable bottom fire such burning need inside him. Curvy and well made, she was the kind of woman no man could gaze upon and not want to possess thoroughly. He could easily imagine her soft, warm body beneath him, and the pleasure of losing himself deep inside her.