Haunted Warrior Read online

  The words, spoken against her ear, dashed the sensual spell he’d cast over her. Genuine regret sounded in his voice, letting her know his sudden and fierce embrace wasn’t something he’d wanted.

  Kendra stiffened, and caught Gavin Ramsay flash a scathing look at Graeme. “This isn’t over, seal man,” she thought she heard Ramsay snarl beneath his breath just before he strode for the door.

  She wasn’t sure because in that same moment, Graeme tightened his arms around her and claimed her mouth with his, kissing her long and hard. It was a savage kiss, bold, brazen, and so heated that Kendra’s heart began to hammer loud enough to block out everything except the thunder of her own pulse in her ears.

  Everything else vanished. The world spun away, leaving only silence filled with the roar of her blood. And—­she couldn’t believe it, considering where they were—­a slow, insistent burn deep inside her, liquid flame sluicing intimate places, melting and arousing her.

  Kendra closed her eyes, surrendering to the embrace.

  She brought her hands up between them, gripping the rough wool of his sweater. She could feel his heart thumping beneath her fingers, the warm, solid strength of his chest. She doubted any man had ever held her so tightly, kissed her with such fierce possession.

  When he took her face in his hands, thrusting his fingers into her hair as he deepened the kiss, she didn’t care who saw them.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Until someone—­a woman—­cleared her throat right behind them.

  Kendra froze in embarrassment. Her eyes snapped open, her mortification complete at finding stout, sour-­faced Janet looking right at her. The older woman’s lips were set in a thin, tight line and her eyes were cold, twin shards of judgment.

  If she could, Kendra would’ve sunk into the floor.

  She was so not into displays of public affection.

  Yet…

  She couldn’t have resisted Graeme’s kiss if her life depended on it. Already he fascinated her. And even though it wasn’t an excuse, he had taken her fully by surprise. What red-­blooded woman could keep her head when a sexy Scotsman with a knock-­your-­socks-­off burr grabbed her, pulled her into his arms, and gave her the kiss of the century?

  She certainly couldn’t.

  Stay unaffected, that was.

  So she did the best she could and summoned a smile, flashing it in the general direction of the goggle-­eyed locals at the bar.

  She didn’t look again at Janet.

  Graeme was still holding her crushed against him and showed no sign of letting her go. It was just a shame that her overly sharp intuition warned her that his kiss and his embrace had nothing to do with a fierce and sudden affection for her. His reasons were elsewhere.

  And that stung more than it should.

  She could easily fall for Graeme MacGrath.

  Worse than that, she suspected she already had.

  Chapter 4

  Kendra felt her nerves fraying, torn one by one under the steady gazes of every patron in the Laughing Gull Inn. An unpleasant hush spread through the room, an awkward silence broken only by the swell of the sea slapping against the harbor’s breakwater outside. Although perhaps that sound—­muffled, rhythmic pounding—­was the roar of her blood. She could feel the hard beat of her pulse, the heat staining her face. Her cheeks were surely crimson.

  She didn’t wear embarrassment gladly.

  Could there be a more conspicuous place in the world for such a kiss?

  She highly doubted it.

  Graeme didn’t seem at all troubled. He even looked pleased with himself. And his devil-­may-­care attitude only made her feel all the more self-­conscious.

  Whatever the kiss was about, it suited him well.

  “Ah, my…” He glanced around the crowded room, somehow managing to look charmingly sheepish. “I didn’t notice how many o’ you were here.”

  Some of the locals chuckled and turned back to the bar. Most kept staring. Their interest revealed that such spectacles didn’t often happen in Pennard. The publican, Iain Garry, attempted to draw their attention by setting aside the pint glass he’d been polishing and offering to refill everyone’s ale on the house.

  Unfortunately, Graeme holding Kendra so tightly in his arms proved more exciting than free beer.

  “People are staring.” Kendra didn’t bother to whisper.

  “So they are, aye.” Graeme didn’t seem to mind.

  He did release her, but slowly and with apparent reluctance. Straightening, he smiled at Janet, who’d brought Kendra’s fish and chips. She huffed a greeting, the words too rushed to make much sense.

  “A fine e’en to you as well, Janet.” Graeme winked good-­naturedly, his charm already working on the older Scotswoman. No longer quite so pinch-­faced, she placed Kendra’s plate on the table.

  “Your lass’s supper.” She spoke to Graeme, not looking at Kendra.

  “She is that, aye.” He slid his arm loosely around Kendra’s shoulder, underscoring the claim. He glanced at her, leaning in to lightly kiss her brow.

  “I haven’t seen her in a while.” He spoke the lie loud enough so not only Janet, but also the entire, gawping crowd at the bar also heard his explanation. “Everyone knows how busy I’ve been of late.”

  “They know you’ve never brought a lassie here.” Janet eyed him suspiciously.

  “Now I have.” Still smiling, he took the seat Gavin Ramsay had vacated. He glanced at Kendra’s fish and chips, then back at Janet. “I’ll also have one of Iain’s special cream cheese and hot smoked salmon sandwiches. And a pint of whatever Kendra’s drinking.”

  “It’s Black Isle Hibernator.” Janet flicked a look at the still-­full glass.

  Graeme raised a brow at Kendra, but nodded to the older woman. “Hibernator it is, then.”

  Janet bustled off, leaving them alone. The locals at the bar didn’t seem as inclined until Graeme, apparently feeling their stares, turned around in his chair.

  “Any man”—­he called to them, his tone pleasant—­“who wouldn’t be as happy to meet with his lady after a long separation can keep on staring. The rest o’ you loons…”

  He didn’t need to finish.

  Every man sitting or standing at the long, polished bar swiftly turned away, once again giving his attention to his drink and his companions.

  Kendra still felt dizzy from Graeme’s kiss, her heart pounding madly. He twisted back around to look at her across the table.

  “What was that all about?” She met his gaze, not caring if she looked angry.

  “That was a nettle grasp.” He reached to take her hand, kissing her fingertips.

  “A what?” She blinked.

  “It’s an old saying. ‘Grasping the nettle’ means to do something you must, however unpleasant.” He had the decency to look embarrassed.

  Kendra understood why. “I see.”

  She did. And hearing what he thought of something she’d viewed as the kiss of the century sent hot color rushing to her cheeks again.

  “No, you don’t.” He waited when Janet appeared with his sandwich and ale. “I didn’t mean kissing you wasn’t nice. It was—­I’ll no’ deny.” He gave her a slow smile that quickly faded when she didn’t return it. “But I’d ne’er have done such a thing here, in front of everyone, if it hadn’t been the only way to get Ramsay away from you.

  “Save tossing him out on the street, which I would’ve done if he hadn’t left.” He leaned across the table, taking her hand again, squeezing her palm firmly. “I hope you can forgive me? Jock will disown me if you can’t.”

  “Your dog has nothing to do with it.” Kendra looked to where the dog had flopped down in the middle of the room. He lay sprawled on one side, his legs sticking straight out. His black-­and-­white face wore a look of bliss, as if he enjoyed blocking the pub’s busiest footpath.

  Kendra turned back to Graeme. “Jock is innocent. Don’t bring him into it. Just tell me why you kissed me. The whole village w
ill think we’re a pair.”

  His smile returned, and with it his charm. “Is that so bad?”

  “That’s not the point.” She held his gaze, frowning.

  What was bad was that the notion struck her as wildly appealing.

  She didn’t do holiday love affairs. And even if she wanted to, letting herself in for a bit of romance with Graeme MacGrath would leave her scorched when their time together ended. She also had more to do here than allow herself to be swept off her feet by a roguish, dog-­loving Scotsman.

  Kendra exhaled slowly. Her work mattered.

  Besides her integrity—­she really was an old-fashioned sort of girl—­she hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She came from good middle-­class stock. Her father was a self-­employed cabinetmaker, and her mother worked as a medical-­records clerk in a hospital.

  In her family, luxury was knowing the monthly bills were paid, not flashy cars, designer clothes, or frequenting the latest chic restaurant.

  Homemade chicken and dumplings or her mother’s secret-­recipe meat loaf ranked higher than a teeny portion of some impossible-­to-­pronounce gourmet fare. And no one left the Chase table hungry. Large servings and second helpings were part of the enjoyment of an evening meal.

  Hard work made that possible.

  Kendra’s values hadn’t changed.

  She couldn’t risk her job.

  “If you keep frowning, you’ll attract attention again.” Graeme’s soft Scottish voice brought her back to the present. “Would it help to know I didn’t come here to kiss you? I saw Ramsay through the window. When I came inside and caught his innuendos—­”

  “What matters is why you did it. Kiss me, I mean.” Kendra took a bite of her batter-­fried haddock. It was delicious, the fish white, tender, and moist, the batter beyond perfection. But it was hard to enjoy her dinner’s scrumptiousness when he’d just turned her world upside down.

  Maybe all Scotsmen were great kissers, but she rather suspected it was him. She knew no one had ever kissed her like that before.

  He’d knocked her socks off, plain and simple.

  Yet he’d not just done so publicly, but for reasons that ruined the pleasure.

  “I know you don’t like Gavin.” She set down her fork and reached for her pint glass and took a sip. “But why should you care if he joined me?”

  “You didn’t look too pleased by his company.” His dark eyes took on a shuttered look, his whole expression hardening. “Ramsay is a known scoundrel. No woman, especially a tourist, is safe from him. He’d take you up to Spindrift, have you for his supper, and then he’d spit out your bones for the gulls to pick.”

  “And you wouldn’t?” Kendra lifted a brow. “Ramsay didn’t kiss me. You did.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  But his face went a tad stonier.

  “I kissed you with good reason.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Word spreads quickly in tiny Scottish villages. Before the sun rises tomorrow, everyone will have heard what happened tonight. And”—­he gave the locals a quick sideways look—­“if all of Pennard thinks you’re mine, Ramsay won’t touch you. He knows better.” His tone held satisfaction.

  “I wouldn’t let him near me anyway.” Kendra tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t care for such men.”

  A slow, sexy smile started at the corner of Graeme’s mouth and he sat back in his chair, looking pleased. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “You aren’t my type, either.” Her words took the burgeoning grin off his face.

  “That’s no’ a bad thing.” His answer stung more than it should. “But”—­he picked up his sandwich, watching her rather than taking a bite—­“so long as you’re here, it’s for the best if folk think you’ve come to see me. We’ll spend some time together.”

  Great.

  He couldn’t have said anything that would make her more uncomfortable. Much as she was attracted to him, she did have work to do. She’d planned to get busy in the morning. And her field wasn’t the kind where an audience was appreciated. Having Graeme look on while she communed with ghosts was a prospect that could give her indigestion.

  Only Zack and others like her understood.

  Graeme would think her nuts.

  And even if she wasn’t into casual relationships, his kiss had finished what his burr started. She was strongly attracted to him and didn’t want to make things worse by having him see her in action, as it were.

  So rather than go anywhere near his comment about spending time together, she changed the subject. “Why did Gavin call you a seal man?”

  “No’ because I’m a selkie—­dinnae you worry.” He took a sip of his ale. “Ramsay calls me that because I use my boat, the Sea Wyfe, to take tourists to see the seals. This coast is home to common harbour seals and grey seals. They’re everywhere, though their number has diminished in recent years. I study them, too, monitoring their whereabouts and behavior for the University of Aberdeen.”

  He set down his pint and glanced at the night-­darkened window. Drifting sea haar still blurred the view, but the half moon could just be made out behind a line of fast-­moving clouds.

  “The seal research keeps me busy.” He turned back to her, his expression serious. “It’s one of the reasons I was in Aberdeen. And”—­he lowered his voice again—­“on the beach at Balmedie.”

  “I didn’t see any seals in the surf there.” Kendra speared another bite of haddock, trying hard not to notice how wickedly handsome Graeme was. Soft light from a beaten-­copper wall lamp fell across his face, emphasizing his proud cheekbones and the sheen of his long black hair, sleekly knotted at his nape. But it was the dark stubble on his jaw that tempted her most, making her want to reach across the table and touch his face. She’d love to trace the contours of his chin, those lips….

  She tore her gaze away, not wanting to stare.

  Although he really was the embodiment of her dream man.

  Not that her work permitted her to indulge in such fantasies often. Being a ghostcatcher did put certain limitations on one’s private life.

  She looked back at him, hoping her face didn’t reveal that just sitting so close to him made her heart leap. “Were you hoping to spot seals at Balmedie?”

  “I was there to walk the dunes.” He took another sip of stout, watching her over the rim. “It’s a fine place for that. I stop by Balmedie Beach whenever I’m in Aberdeen. The seals now…”

  Trailing off, he stood, motioning her to stay seated before he picked up her almost-­full glass of stout and headed for the bar. When he returned, he set a half-­pint of lager next to her plate.

  “I mind the stout is too strong for you.” He winked, his gaze flicking to the half-­pint. “Thon’s more or less local. Macbeth from Deeside Brewery; it’s a fine pale ale guaranteed to please.”

  “Thank you.” Kendra tried the golden brew as Graeme carried Ramsay’s two untouched drams back to the bar. The lager was perfect, delicious and crisp.

  “I like to see a lady happy.” He came back quickly, reaching to clink his stout glass to her half-­pint as he reclaimed his chair. “The seals, now,” he began again. “Most of them are at Peterhead these days. That’s to the east of here, around the coast at Fraserburgh and then south. All the big commercial fishing is there, and the harbour seals, especially, are clever opportunists.

  “They swarm the Peterhead harbor, waiting for the fishing boats to come in.” He glanced at the window again, then back at her. “The seals pounce on any fish the boats lose overboard and”—­he smiled—­“whatever bits kindhearted fishermen pitch to them.

  “Myself”—­he smiled again—­“I pay most heed to the seals hereabouts, counting and monitoring them through their natural annual cycle. When and where they prefer to haul out, for example—­”

  “Haul out?” Kendra blinked.

  “Haul ashore, aye.” His smile deepened, dimple flashing. “The time they spend on land. Learning why they go a
shore where and when they do and how long they stay there is crucial to determining which areas need to be deemed SACs, special areas of conservation.

  “For instance”—­he leaned forward, his passion for the seals making him all the more sympathetic—­“we know they’re less likely to haul out on days of strong winds and rain. So the sites they most favor are usually the wind-­protected sides of skerries or sandbars. Also rocky ledges that offer the best vantages at low tide. And—­”

  He broke off, sitting back again. “I’m boring you.”

  “No, not at all.” Kendra reached out to touch his arm. Even that innocent connection stirred a strong response in her and set her pulse racing.

  She withdrew her hand at once, hoping he couldn’t tell.

  “It must be fascinating work.” She looked to where Jock was now snoring loudly in the middle of the pub’s stone-­flagged floor. “I’d enjoy such research. I love animals and believe in protecting them.”

  “Is that what you do?” He was watching her intently, as if her answer really mattered to him. “Have you a career in veterinary medicine or perhaps animal rescue? When you’re not holidaying in Scotland?”

  Kendra shook her head. “I’m a landscape historian.” The half-­truth, spoken so often, came easily. “A plain, working-­class girl from a Philadelphia suburb who just happened to develop a penchant for medieval history and archaeology—­that’s me. I’m self-­taught but somehow manage to land freelance work helping heritage organizations throughout Britain locate sites of lost medieval villages. At least, such sites are my specialty.” That much was true.

  “And how do you do that?” Graeme’s voice softened, his accent getting to her again.

  “Many are the ways.” Kendra glanced at the window. The sea haar was thinning now, the moon casting the harbor in an eerie silver light. “It’s mostly done by fieldwork, hours and days spent looking for traces of earthworks that mark forgotten village roads and home sites. You also need to watch for grassy mounds and other such lumps that are often remains of medieval walls.