Haunted Warrior Page 4

  The house would be her first stop on this assignment.

  Just now, she was still a tourist.

  As if he agreed, Jock squirmed, bumping the back of her seat.

  “Jock likes the inn?” Kendra could see he did.

  Graeme shot a glance at the excited canine. “Iain keeps dog treats behind the bar. All the dogs between Fraserburgh and Macduff know Garry’s a pushover. He’s why I walk Jock so often. If I didn’t, Iain would make him fat.”

  “If dogs are welcome, then I’ve picked a good place to stay.” Kendra let herself out of the car before Graeme could open the door for her.

  “It’s the only place to stay.” Graeme stepped in the way when Jock tried to jump from the car. “Our one hotel and, with your arrival, it’s full up. Scotland’s Past’s work crews occupy every room and have also let what beds any enterprising locals deigned to offer them.”

  “Scotland’s Past?” Kendra pretended not to have heard of the restoration trust.

  “Aye, them and no other.” Graeme’s voice held scorn. “They’re the lot responsible for such placards.” He gestured to a red phone box near the marina where a homemade poster declared STOP PROJECT PENNARD in bold black letters. “They want to buy out the locals and turn the village into the eighteenth-­century fishing hub of its heyday.

  “People here aren’t happy.” He closed the passenger’s door, ignoring Jock’s unhappy face pressed against the window glass. “Money can’t replace tradition. A new house somewhere else might be more spacious and have better plumbing and no crooked floors, but it wouldn’t be the house where your father and grandfather and his father before him lived, worked, and breathed their last.”

  “Oh.” A coil of guilt curled in Kendra’s middle. Put that way, Scotland’s Past lost sympathy with her. She glanced at the empty house’s construction trappings, noting that whatever had been there was now gone. “I didn’t realize that was going on here.”

  She hadn’t.

  She’d assumed the villagers were ecstatic about Scotland’s Past’s interest.

  No one had told her people would lose homes.

  “It’s no’ your problem.” Graeme was already on the other side of the car, the driver’s door open a crack. “Iain will see to you. And I’ll return your car after I’ve rid it of Jock’s mud tracks.”

  “Thank you, but I really didn’t mind.” She hadn’t, and the truth was she wished he’d gone straight to his cottage so she could’ve helped clean the rental car and spent more time with him and his dog.

  And that was the last thing she needed to be doing.

  She was here to work.

  Graeme MacGrath had the potential to be a huge distraction.

  Thoughts of him—­the kind of thoughts she shouldn’t be having—­already filled her mind, making her pulse quicken and her long-­neglected sex drive waken with bells on. One glance from his dark, thick-­lashed eyes sent sensation tripping along her nerves. His dimple was a deadly weapon, capable of undoing her composure in a single flashing smile. His presence was intense, charging the air and making her almost wish he’d kiss her.

  No man had ever affected her so swiftly or so powerfully.

  And that wasn’t good.

  Pennard’s spirits needed her. Now more than ever, since she’d learned more about the village’s troubles. Zack had mentioned only disgruntled souls upset about restoration work. Construction chaos often irritated those who preferred eternal peace. Yet she’d felt something more than a riled ghost in the empty house.

  The spirits’ annoyances could be drawing in darker, more dangerous energies.

  If so, she’d soon have her hands full.

  But Graeme couldn’t know that. Every assignment she took on swore her to confidentiality. Getting involved with a local would not just lead to the inevitable heartbreak of a “holiday romance,” but also imperil her job. So she forced a bright smile and lifted her hand to wave, only to lower it as quickly, because he’d already driven away. Somehow he’d turned the car and managed to get halfway down the harbor road before she’d realized he was gone.

  Kendra frowned, looking after him as the car’s red taillights disappeared into the mist.

  There really was something about him….

  And it had to do with more than his dark good looks and Scottish accent.

  But before she could decide just what it was, she took a moment to see if she could sense any of Pennard’s other residents—­the disembodied ones who hadn’t yet shown themselves, but would soon become aware of her presence and come looking for her.

  A few locals had noticed her.

  She saw the signs in her peripheral vision: lace curtains twitching at windows as curious eyes peered out at her as she stood beside the marina’s stone slipway. And they looked even harder as she started across the road toward the Laughing Gull Inn’s black-­painted door.

  Kendra knew the curtain twitching would stop if she returned the stares.

  So she didn’t, minding her business as she always did.

  But with each step she took, she felt something that disturbed her. And it had nothing to do with village gossips or the poor, disembodied souls she soon hoped to meet.

  It was Pennard.

  A sense of darkness reflected on the sea and along the pebbly, wave-­swept shore. Whatever it was, its shadow was etched in the stones here. Even the fine mist beading cottage windows held tinges of mystery. And strange echoes hid in the roar of the sea wind.

  Something much more troubling than disgruntled discarnates was wrong here.

  Kendra knew who’d have answers.

  She just hoped questioning Graeme wouldn’t stir up problems of a different sort. The way her blood quickened in anticipation of seeing him again warned that she was swimming in dangerous waters.

  And the undertow was already pulling her in.

  Chapter 2

  “This is your fault, laddie.”

  Graeme MacGrath, lifelong resident of Pennard, scowled at his dog, Jock, as he bent to dip a sponge into a bucket of soapy water. His frown turned even blacker when a curtain of sea spray flew over the wall of a nearby breakwater, dousing him and the small blue rental car he was presently washing.

  The spray didn’t reach Jock, sprawled as he was on the Keel’s door stoop.

  And the dog’s smug expression said he felt his master deserved the brine shower.

  “If it weren’t for you”—­Graeme circled the sponge over the car’s driver’s-­side window—­“thon American lassie would be halfway to Banff by now. She’d spend the night in a posh tourist hotel and take tea at Duff House on the morrow. She wouldn’t be here where her like has no business.”

  Jock shifted on the stoop, clearly settling down for a nap in the afternoon’s cold sunlight.

  It was a favorite trick—­feigning sleep when he wished to wriggle out of an argument.

  “She isn’t an ordinary tourist.” Graeme dipped his sponge in the bucket again, sure of his statement. He’d seen the sheen of her aura at Balmedie. It’d been what first caught his attention when he’d seen her from the dunes. And this afternoon, up on the bluff, the light halo surrounding her glowed like the sun, almost blinding him.

  She was likely unaware.

  Most people didn’t even know they had auras.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only soul in Pennard who understood such things. Feeling bile rise in his throat, Graeme shot a glare at the Spindrift, high above the far end of the village. If his nemesis, Gavin Ramsay, spotted her, he’d know in a beat that she was exceptional. Like Graeme, he’d recognize her as so much more than a sexy, desirable woman with a fetching American drawl.

  And that meant…

  “We’ll have to look out for her, Jock.” Graeme glanced again at his dog.

  He wasn’t surprised when the sneaky beast’s lip lifted in Jock’s version of a self-­satisfied smile.

  “Better yet”—­Graeme returned to car washing—­“we’ll have to make sure she leaves Pe
nnard quickly.”

  Jock rolled over, showing Graeme his back.

  Fluting canine snores soon filled the air, joining the whistle of the wind and the splash of waves on the stone of the breakwater.

  Graeme knew he’d lost a battle.

  Jock always won.

  Not that Graeme minded. Far from it; knowing the dog was happy was one of the high points of his life. He doubted he could tolerate certain things without Jock. But Kendra Chase’s arrival had soured his day. He just hoped Jock’s badgering for a second afternoon cliff walk hadn’t had anything to do with the lovely American.

  If so…

  He tightened his grip on the sponge and threw another glance at the dog.

  Jock’s snores grew louder.

  Any further glares were pointless. Jock played the game well and wouldn’t stir until hunger disturbed him. Now as always, Jock’s appreciation of food would prove greater than his wish to irritate his master with make-­believe slumber.

  So Graeme pretended, as well, acting as if the snores didn’t faze him.

  He did look down the narrow street where rolling mist slid past the Laughing Gull. Thicker now, the sea haar drifted in from the bay, blotting the inn and other cottages from view. Wind brought the cold, damp smell of rain and the sun vanished again, slipping behind clouds to leave Pennard in the usual gray tones of autumn.

  Graeme frowned and grabbed the hose, washing soap foam from Kendra Chase’s hired car. A vehicle she clearly had no business trying to drive. Although her walking about Pennard in such dense, enveloping mist as was now gathering proved a much worse prospect.

  So much in the tiny fishing hamlet wasn’t as it seemed.

  Pennard wasn’t just a tightly knit community bound together by ages of raw weather, hardship, and the sea. Nor was the village’s reality anything like the picture-­postcard quaintness so loved in recent times by the hordes of camera-­packing summer tourists eager for a taste of briny wind, fresh seafood, and a good dose of Herring Fisher nostalgia.

  Such visitors enjoyed experiencing the feel of bygone eras without the modern world’s hectic pace and stress. Others came to trace their ancestral roots, their interest sparked by Braveheart and the popularity in America of certain Scottish actors.

  They hoped to find a simpler time in Pennard.

  But those days were gone.

  The erstwhile herring fleet had long been usurped by a handful of small fishing craft and, in season, the pleasure boats hoping to take visitors to see seals, dolphins, and the still-­impressive coastal views.

  Other things also remained.

  More than dark and mist curled around the stone cottages come nightfall. Just as foaming swells weren’t all that crashed against the breakwaters. And curious old women weren’t always responsible for the twitching edges of curtains when a stranger passed by.

  Pennard held dangerous secrets.

  And his was the most damning of all.

  Scowling again, Graeme snatched a dry cloth and began polishing the driver’s door of the car, scrubbing with a vengeance.

  It scarce mattered that his burden was a noble one.

  Keeping Pennard and its residents safe was a legacy his family had carried for centuries. Their status and title as Guardians of the Shadow Wand, a timeless relic entrusted to their care with all the honor’s attendant requirements, had altered his life.

  And duty alone was the reason he’d return the American lassie’s car by parking it outside the Laughing Gull. He’d leave the key with Iain rather than inviting her for a walk along the shore, followed by an offer to cook dinner for her. He wouldn’t regret not treating her to a romantic Scottish evening before his peat fire.

  Women, as far as he could recall, enjoyed snuggling before the hearth on chill, damp nights when the mist pressed against the windows. The occasional call of a foghorn or the sound of the sea running out beyond the arm of the harbor didn’t hurt, either.

  Suchlike made a woman lean into a man, welcoming his strong embrace.

  And Kendra Chase was a woman he wouldn’t mind pulling into his arms. Lithe and shapely, she had the kind of well-­made curves that would fill a man’s arms nicely, warming him on the fiercest winter night. He liked her shining blond hair, cut at her chin. The first time she’d turned her gaze on him when he was on the dunes at Balmedie, her large blue eyes captivated him, instantly heating his blood.

  But it was how those sparkling sapphire eyes had widened, then softened with understanding when he’d told her what Scotland’s Past’s plans would do to the locals, that sealed it for him.

  She might be an outsider, a tourist from a world and culture he couldn’t begin to comprehend and also didn’t care to, but she clearly appreciated the importance of heritage and pride in one’s birthplace.

  Her spirit also drew him. She would’ve driven down Cliff Road simply to prove to him that she could, even though dread had been written all over her face.

  Instinct told him she’d respond if he pursued her. He burned to do so. To bring her here to the Keel for just this one night. An indulgence he shouldn’t allow himself, especially not with her, yet the prospect proved almost irresistible. Even the thought of standing behind her, holding her arms lightly and bending his head to give her a simple neck nuzzle, set his pulse to roaring.

  If he restrained himself, it might be possible to just enjoy her company.

  A few kisses and…

  He cursed and tossed the drying towel onto the bench beside his cottage’s blue-­painted door.

  If Kendra Chase came anywhere near him again, he’d want more than kisses from her.

  He already did.

  He also felt a chill sweep the back of his neck in the same moment that Jock sprang to his feet and leapt off the door stoop. Not feigning sleep now, the dog snarled, hackles rising. Then he shot around the corner, making for the shed at the back of the cottage.

  “Jock, wait!” Graeme sprinted after him, wishing as so many times before that his dog was less bold.

  Canine heroics led to heartache.

  Running faster, Graeme raced down the muddy path alongside the house, nipping around Jock just before the dog could launch himself at the spike-­haired youth who stood frozen before the shed door.

  He was Ritchie Watt, local ne’er-­do-­well.

  And he’d been trying to break into the shed.

  Jock froze, as well. But he shook with menace, his growls reverberating low in his chest.

  “Inside, Jock.” Graeme jerked his head toward the front of the cottage, fixing the dog with a look he used only on rare occasions. “Away with you now, and dinnae be coming back out here.”

  Jock didn’t meet his eye, his unblinking stare pinned on the white-­faced youth. But when Graeme angled his head, putting all his will into a silent command, the dog gave one last snarl and then trotted back down the path, disappearing around the front corner.

  Graeme released the breath he’d been holding.

  Ritchie Watt was good with a gutting knife and he held one in his hand now. It was the blade he’d been using to try and pry open the shed door. And the glazed look in his dark-­circled eyes left no doubt that if Jock had sprung on him, he would’ve used the knife.

  “Drop your blade, lad.” Graeme started toward him, hoping the boy didn’t do anything foolish. “You dinnae want me to take it from you.”

  “I’ll drop it in a pig’s eye.” Ritchie made a dash for the rock face rising steeply behind the shed. The knife fell from his hand as he flung himself at the cliff, scrambling for a foothold.

  “You’re no’ going anywhere.” Graeme reached him in three easy strides. He plucked the ruffian off the rocks, thrusting him back against the shed. “And you wouldn’t have made it into my shed if you tried for a hundred years. You know that, I’m thinking?”

  Ritchie gave him a surly look rather than answer.

  “There’s naught but old salt barrels in there.” The thought that Gavin Ramsay would send a lackey to invade hi
s shed, prying into one of the few things he cherished as a semblance of normalcy in his life, stoked a fury Graeme didn’t want to unleash on a misguided lad like Ritchie Watt. “They’re from o’er two hundred years ago, when the herring fleets crowded this wee harbor.

  “Thon barrels”—­he leaned in, anger giving an edge to his voice—­“were once packed with silver darlings, the herring that meant bread and living for Pennard and this whole coast in those days.”

  “I don’t care about herring barrels.” Ritchie’s eyes glittered, his chin jutting defiantly.

  “You should.” Graeme glanced at the shed door and then at the youth. “I do, and my shed’s full of them. Whole barrels, half barrels, and a few firkins, sweet little quarter barrels, if you’ve forgotten so much of this place’s history, you dinnae ken what a firkin is.

  “They’re the salt barrels I restore and give out on loan to the Laughing Gull and anyone needing them for a ceilidh or other gathering.” Graeme released the youth, letting a hard stare hold him in place.

  “And there’s nothing inside the barrels except air, age, and a hint of brine.” He stepped closer, bracing a fist against the shed wall next to Ritchie’s head. “Tell that to Ramsay, and warn him that the next fool he sends to my house will suffer more than leaving here with his knife bent from prying into places it dinnae belong.”

  “My knife’s not bent.” Ritchie glared at him, his gaze flicking to the rock face where the herring knife had slipped from his fingers.

  The muddy ground was empty.

  Following his gaze, Graeme smiled. “Your blade’s here.” He held out the knife on his palm, watching the youth’s eyes round as he snatched the bent-­double weapon from Graeme’s hand.

  He suspected Ritchie knew he’d bent the blade.

  Just as the lad now knew that the boundary spells Graeme kept around his property worked better than any dark magic Gavin Ramsay could conjure. It didn’t matter that Ritchie and his like, or even the whole village, never dared voice such suspicions.

  Worrying about his supposed powers was enough to keep them at bay.

  At least, it had been until recently.

  So he reached for the shed’s door latch, lifting it with ease. “This shed is ne’er locked.” It was sealed against evil. But that wasn’t his point. “If e’er you feel a true interest in preserving old salt barrels, the door will open for you. I’ll gladly teach you how to get the salt crust and grime off them and bring them back to their original beauty. Until that day comes…”