Haunted Warrior Read online

  And, regrettably, her special stress remedy of surrounding herself with calming white light wasn’t working just now. Either the spirit guides who usually helped her in uneasy times were on holiday, or—­and she suspected this was the reason—­her dread of driving left down a sheer rock face simply packed a greater punch.

  “Oh, man…” Beads of moisture formed on her forehead. A similar nuisance droplet trickled between her breasts, quickly followed by another one.

  And despite the afternoon’s chill, the inside of her rental car felt hotter and stickier than if she were driving without AC through the worst heat of a Florida summer. Any moment she would suffocate.

  Going forward wasn’t an option.

  Backing up…

  It was a possibility. A glance in the rearview mirror showed no other car in sight. The road stretched narrow and straight, leading across empty moorland of heather and high grasses, the whole swathed by mist and scattered with groupings of boulders.

  She needed only to avoid the verge. High grass hid the road’s edges, but after such a rainy morning, they’d surely be soft and squishy. This wasn’t a place to risk a wheel sinking into peat muck.

  A shivery prickling at her nape warned that might happen.

  She had to take the chance.

  As carefully as she could, she began reversing. At first she let the car creep backward by the inch, then—­becoming more daring—­she covered a few feet, followed by a good couple yards. Turning would be too precarious. But unless another vehicle appeared, she’d eventually reach the main coastal road. She’d find the first place to pull over safely. Then, thanks to the five-­hour time difference in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and Ghostcatchers International headquarters, she’d call Zack, catching him at the beginning of his work day, before the office became too hectic.

  Ghosts were popular these days.

  And Ghostcatchers’ phone and e-­mail hopped with as many hopeful ghost-­catching wannabes as with people needing their services.

  Kendra shouldn’t have allowed those reminders of work to enter her mind because…

  She’d just felt the back left wheel dip and lurch as she edged along the verge. Thankfully, she righted the car before it tilted too badly. But the almost mishap made her anxious all over again.

  The prickles at her nape also returned. And this time, ripples of awareness washed over her, the sensation familiar enough for her to slow to a crawl and scan the seemingly endless moorland that stretched away on both sides of the ribbon-­thin road.

  As her aura glowed much brighter than most people’s, it was possible Pennard’s spirit residents sensed her approach and were coming to greet her. The like happened often enough, though she’d rather not meet anyone just now. Corporeal or incorporeal, it didn’t matter.

  But the only thing stirring was wind in the heather. And, nearer the cliff edge, a handful of seabirds wheeled on the air currents. Beyond, the sea gleamed like beaten pewter, winking with choppy, white-­crested waves until rolling mist blotted the view.

  The returning fishing boats must’ve already reached Pennard’s tiny harbor.

  Not a soul—­quite literally—­was anywhere in sight.

  But then a dog barked again. And this time he sounded close enough for her to hit the brakes sharply. Dread slammed into her, horror squeezing her chest.

  She’d survive the shame of refusing an assignment.

  But she’d never forgive herself if she hurt an animal, especially a dog.

  Fortunately, she spotted the dog at once and he wasn’t anywhere near her rental car, though he was headed her way. A frisky border collie, he was bounding gleefully along a coastal path she hadn’t yet noticed because of the high grass and heather.

  She did notice the tall, ponytailed man strolling oh, so casually behind the dog.

  He was the sexy Scotsman from Balmedie Beach.

  Shock raced through Kendra as she recognized him. Her body turned alternately hot and cold, her heart jolting as man and dog drew closer.

  Now, as at Balmedie, he wore faded jeans and a black leather jacket. And what watery sun there was glinted in his raven black hair. No ghost, although there was still something about him. He had an air of power and presence no modern man possessed. As if her eyes were playing tricks on her, she saw a quick overlay of him, resplendent in a kilt, plaid blowing in the wind, and a huge, wicked-­looking sword belted low on his hip. The blade had a jeweled hilt that caught the light. Then the image vanished, gone as if it’d never been.

  His incredible aura remained, potent and compelling.

  Kendra blinked to clear her eyes.

  She was sure even at this distance that he’d locked gazes with her. It was also evident he wasn’t pleased to see her. His stride quickened, turning purposeful. Clearly he was a man who’d make any woman weak in the knees, but just now reproach showed in every line of his beautifully made male body. He came toward her like a predator, his mouth set in a hard, determined line. The air between them sizzled, his displeasure as tangible as her racing pulse.

  Still, flutters of pure appreciation curled deep in her most sensitive regions. Tingly warmth spread, igniting feelings she needed to squelch.

  Before she could try, his dog leapt forward and bolted for her car. Coming fast, he almost flew the last few feet, not stopping until his muddied paws smeared her window and his friendly black-­and-­white face peered in at her. All lolling tongue and bright eyes, he stole her heart in an instant, even making her laugh.

  The nightmare of driving on the left side of the road and her fear of sheer rock faces receded, chased by the rascally dog’s eagerness to meet her.

  Until his master sprinted up to the car and his frown dashed her much-­needed levity.

  “Jock, down.” He spoke firmly, taking the dog by the collar and pulling him off the car when he refused to obey. Undaunted, Jock broke away and lunged again at the window, this time slurping the glass.

  Kendra opened the car door, getting out. “It’s okay. Please—­”

  “He’s a ruffian.” The man reached for him again, but the dog bounded aside, circling them. “I’ll clean your window in the village. Jock shouldn’t—­”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Kendra gripped the car door as the wind almost knocked her down. Cold, damp air that smelled of the sea—­tangy, invigorating, and oddly beckoning—­surrounded her. Almost as if the very air called to her, challenging her to breathe it and not be captivated.

  An elixir she’d always yearn for if she left now.

  A ridiculous notion she shoved aside as Jock bumped against her, nudging her hand and eyeing her hopefully as if she had treats.

  She glanced at the smeared window and then at Jock’s master, who still looked furious. “I don’t mind the smudges. I love dogs.”

  “Sit, laddie, and be still.” The man ignored her and motioned to his dog, giving him a look. This time Jock stayed away from her. But he remained standing, his tail wagging happily.

  Obviously, Jock had obedience issues.

  His master…

  Kendra suspected his dog was the only soul able to get the better of him. A law unto himself, he wouldn’t allow others’ rules to sway him. He breathed strength, a roguish self-­assurance that was incredibly appealing.

  He liked dogs.

  That pulled weight with her.

  Jock barked as if he knew and was pleased. Then he dropped onto his haunches and bobbed his head, giving her an enthusiastic canine grin.

  “Your dog is friendly.” Kendra met the man’s eyes, letting her own imply the rest.

  “And I am not?” He took the bait. His dark gaze measured her, his frown firmly in place. “I did pull Jock off your car.”

  “Dogs never bother me.” Kendra stood straighter, hoping the wind would cool her flushed face and hide the film of moisture on her brow.

  His mention of the rental car brought her frustrations spiraling right back to her. They hit her like a fist in the chest, bringing embarrassment
, because he’d surely seen her snail-­like reversal from the cliff edge. Knowing she was American and thinking her a tourist, he’d no doubt guessed the reason for her flight.

  Americans were known to dread UK driving.

  As a matter of pride, Kendra tossed back her hair and lifted her chin. “What does bother me is wondering what you’re doing here.”

  “Walking Jock.” He glanced at the dog. “We take the coastal path every afternoon.”

  “Yesterday you were in Aberdeen, at Balmedie Beach.” Kendra expected him to deny it.

  “I had business there.” His honesty surprised her. The way he narrowed his eyes, looking her up and down, annoyed her. “You didn’t say you were headed for Pennard. Not many tourists come here these days.”

  Kendra knew why.

  Zack had told her Scotland’s Past’s initial refurbishment work was negatively impacting tourism. Visitors didn’t generally like construction noise.

  But she kept that knowledge to herself.

  She also narrowed her eyes, following his inquisitive lead. “Not many people walk on sand without leaving footprints.”

  “Then you didn’t listen to a word I told you.” He didn’t miss a beat. “The winds at Balmedie Beach are fierce. Gusts so strong they blow away tracks before your foot even touches the ground.”

  Kendra didn’t buy his excuse. “The wind wasn’t that strong last night.”

  “I say it was.” A faint smile touched his lips, causing the dimple in his cheek to almost deepen.

  The air between them crackled again and—­as if at his bidding—­the chill wind whipped around her, pushing her toward him, teasing her with his scent. It was the same mix of leather; cold, clean air; and man that she’d found so heady the night before.

  She still did, and that made her defensive.

  He was much too attractive.

  And his soft, buttery rich burr proved why so many American women melted at the first hint of a Scottish accent. No man should have a voice so wickedly seductive.

  It was an unfair advantage.

  So she let her gaze flick over him, trying to appear unimpressed.

  “Do you always share your opinions with strangers?” She lifted her chin, waiting.

  For a moment he looked surprised, but then he smiled again. This time his dimple did flash. “Right enough—­I do. And as you just spoke of the wind, we’re quit, aye? Besides”—­he took a step closer, his gaze not leaving her face—­“we aren’t strangers. We met last night.”

  “I don’t even know your name.” His nearness made her pulse leap.

  “I’m Graeme MacGrath.” His burr deepened on the r’s, softening as if he’d just said something much more intimate than his name. “I have a cottage at the end of Harbour Street—­the Keel.” He glanced out over the rough seas, then back at her. “It’s a wee place, but suits me well. My family has lived there for centuries.

  “And you”—­he reached to steady the car door when the wind strengthened—­“are Kendra Chase, come to stay at the Laughing Gull Inn.”

  Kendra blinked, instantly suspicious. “How do you know my name?”

  “If you weren’t a tourist, you’d know.” A corner of his mouth lifted as he stepped even closer, shielding her from the wind. “There are no secrets in small Scottish villages. Iain Garry, who owns the inn, mentioned you last night. Everyone in Pennard now knows an American is coming to see the famous setting of The Herring Fisher.”

  “The film does make you want to visit Pennard.” Kendra didn’t correct his assumption. “I don’t know anyone who’s seen it and not fallen in love with the area. They really did make the scenery look spectacular.”

  “This coast is spectacular.” His tone held pride, his gaze flicking over the moors. “But it’s no place to visit now, in the autumn when the seas are in a rage and the haar spoils the views. Haar is mist, if you didn’t know. Thick and sleety at times, it sweeps in from the sea to pulse across the land. You wouldn’t want to be caught by it.”

  “I like wild weather.” She did.

  “Is that why you were backing away from the cliff?” He raised one black brow.

  “I…” Kendra tucked her hair behind an ear. It was hard to think with him so close, his arm bracing the car door, caging her.

  She could feel his warmth. And his jacket sleeve touched her shoulder, the contact sending ripples of sensation spilling through her. His scent flooded her senses, making her heart race.

  She was sure he knew.

  “I wasn’t trying to leave Pennard.” She wasn’t about to admit her dread of left-­side driving and perpendicular roads. “I thought I’d taken the wrong turnoff and wanted to check the signpost.”

  “You’d do best to drive on to Banff.” He didn’t believe her. “The coast road onward isn’t too harrowing, and you’ll like Banff fine. There’s a lot to see. Duff House, with its art gallery and tearoom—­”

  “I came here to see Pennard.” It wasn’t a lie.

  And her words made Graeme MacGrath’s mouth tighten into a hard line. “Pennard is filled with workmen these days. No place for tourists.”

  Kendra straightened. “I’m not just any tourist.” That, too, was the truth. “And I spent much of my life in Philadelphia. I’m used to jackhammers, street traffic, and all kinds of other noise I’m sure is much worse than a few workmen in a Scottish seaside hamlet.”

  Graeme frowned. “Pennard isn’t just any Scottish hamlet.” He tossed her argument back at her. “There are other fishing villages—­”

  “Maybe I’ll decide for myself.” Kendra couldn’t stand overbearing men.

  Worse—­because it meant she’d now have to drive down the cliff road—­she wasn’t about to let this one tell her what to do.

  She’d doomed herself.

  Her entire body prickled with annoyance. “If you’ll just be on your way, I’ll be on mine.”

  His scowl deepened. “You’ll never make it down Cliff Road.”

  “Of course I will.” The very idea turned her knees to jelly.

  “If you try to drive—­” On the word drive, Jock bolted between them, leaping into the car. “Jock! Get out of there!” Graeme bent, reaching in after him, but the dog jumped into the backseat.

  And it was clear he wasn’t budging.

  “Damn you, Jock.” Graeme straightened, glaring through the window at his dog.

  Jock grinned back at him, triumphant.

  Kendra smiled, too, unable to help herself. “I’ll drop him off at your cottage. The Keel, right?”

  She started to get into the car, sure adrenaline would see her safely down the horrid road, but a firm grasp to her arm stopped her.

  “Aye, it’s the Keel, but you’ll no’ be driving there.” Steering her around to the left side of the car, he opened the passenger’s door and urged her into the seat, buckling her in before she could protest.

  “I’ll see you safely to the Laughing Gull and then”—­he shot an angry look at Jock as he quickly circled the car and slid behind the wheel—­“I’ll take your car back to my cottage and wash it for you, inside and out.”

  In the back, Jock barked and rested a muddy paw on the console.

  Then, before Kendra had time to be afraid, Graeme started the engine and expertly drove them right over the cliff edge and onto the plunging, ribbonlike road that led down into the village.

  It was all Kendra could do not to close her eyes.

  Pride alone kept them open.

  Impossibly tight, the road was even worse than she’d imagined, zigzagging steeply between the high stone walls of houses hewn right out of the bluff. A jumble of slate and red pan-­tiled roofs rose like stepladders right to the water’s edge, where a single row of whitewashed cottages looked across the road to a sliver of pebbled beach and the choppy, foam-­crested waves of Pennard Bay.

  The little harbor with its stone pier, sea defenses, and fishing boats dominated the east end of the hamlet. And high above the marina, as if keeping guard
, a large white house claimed a perch halfway up the far bluff. Low mist drifted round the house’s walls, but Kendra could see the glint of picture windows and the soft gleam of lights behind them. The house would have commanding views, and was clearly someone’s pride. Smoke rose from its chimney, the blue of peat smoke standing out against the gray fog.

  “Thon’s the Spindrift, owned by one Gavin Ramsay.” Graeme glanced at her as he drove slowly along the narrow waterfront road. “You’ll no’ be wanting to go up there. The road’s private and the bluff footpath is steeper than the way we just came down.”

  Kendra leaned forward, craning her neck to get a better view of the house. Graeme’s tone told her that his warning had more to do with Gavin Ramsay, the homeowner, than the way to his door.

  “You don’t like Ramsay?” She looked again at Graeme, not missing the tightness of his jaw.

  “I didn’t say that.” His face turned even stonier.

  From the backseat, Jock thrust his head between them, breaking the tension. When he tried to push forward, joining them in the front, Graeme took one hand off the wheel to thrust him back.

  “Jock knows we’re here.” He pulled to the edge of the road, stopping the car near the marina.

  Directly across from them, the two-­story inn, whitewashed like Pennard’s cottages, waited, gable end to the street. Large black lettering above the black-­painted door announced the building was the Laughing Gull Inn. The windows were also black rimmed, giving the hotel a distinctive look. Thin blue smoke rose from two pipe-­stack chimneys, letting visitors know a lit fire waited within.

  Several doors down, a cottage with vacant, curtainless windows caught her eye. Scaffolding covered one side of the whitewashed house. An empty paint bucket stood on the door stoop. Kendra’s nape prickled. Even in the car, she could sense stirrings there, a restless aura about the house. A dark energy lurked within the empty walls, perhaps a lesser entity, not even a human spirit.

  Whatever it was, the energy knew she’d arrived. She could feel it watching her, waiting.

  Not wanting Graeme to notice—­she suspected he would if she looked too long at the deserted house—­she reached for her shoulder bag and unlatched her seat belt.