Haunted Warrior Page 8

  “People like me are called in to assess the land before an excavation team moves in.” She looked back at him, suddenly embarrassed.

  More than once, Brits outside her working perimeters scoffed at an American being so presumptuous as to claim the ability of finding their medieval remains.

  But Graeme was Scottish—­which Scots always put first, before calling themselves British—­and he was neither laughing nor looking superior.

  He did look good.

  So much so that she almost forgot what she’d meant to say. “Most of the sites I’ve worked on were abandoned in the fifteenth century. They’re usually located in England. I was down there, working, before I came up here. Pennard”—­she looked out the window again, not wanting to fudge while facing him—­“is a much-­needed break before I fly home.”

  “So you aren’t just any tourist. I didn’t think so.” His words made her feel worse, even though she was contractually bound to withhold the few critical details she hadn’t shared with him.

  “I’m a tourist here.” Now she really had lied to him.

  Certain her deceit was stamped on her forehead, she kept her gaze on the harbor, which was still hazed by mist but had a soft glow in the moonlight.

  “Pennard isn’t showing you its best side.” His tone hardened, and she knew he meant Scotland’s Past and Gavin Ramsay. “You would’ve done better to drive on to Banff.”

  “I like Pennard.” She did.

  At least, she liked the Laughing Gull Inn. She could imagine staying here, enjoying its cheery warmth. Any place with heavy-­beamed ceilings, stone-­flagged floors, and mist curling past the windows suited her fine. The peat fire and huge portion of fish and chips for supper didn’t hurt, either. Dogs welcome was a bonus.

  “Pennard has a lot going for it.” Kendra warmed to the topic, feeling a need to defend the little fishing village. “Where else can you enjoy the freshest possible haddock even as the fishing boats come in on the tide?”

  Turning back to the window, she watched their approach, glad that the mist had thinned enough to allow her such a gripping, age-­old sight.

  And the fleet’s arrival was something to see.

  The harbor lights glimmered through the haze and shone on the water, smooth and black now, glassy as a mirror. Far out to sea, beyond the harbor’s breakwater, the lights of the fishing fleet twinkled through the darkness.

  “I’m surprised there are so many. There must be at least a hundred boats….” Kendra let the words trail away when she glanced back at Graeme and saw the expression on his face.

  Not just that. The entire room had gone silent.

  All eyes were on her.

  And everyone wore the same look as Graeme: a sort of stunned perplexity, marked by either widened eyes and raised brows or angled heads and frowns.

  “What is it?” She ignored the others and focused on Graeme.

  “It’s nothing, lass.” His tone wasn’t encouraging. “That’s the problem, see you?” He leaned forward, placing his hand on her arm. “There isn’t a fishing fleet at Pennard. The nearest fleets are at Peterhead and Fraserburgh, and those boats wouldn’t be heading in here. There’s no one out there.” He sounded worried, a frown creasing his brow. “Not a single boat on the water, save the few already moored.”

  “But I saw them.” Kendra twisted back around on the window bench, this time cupping her face as she peered through the cold glass.

  Drifting mist and an almost-­empty marina greeted her.

  Pennard Bay lay deserted, not a single craft on its night-­stilled waters. Beyond, the open sea proved equally lonesome. Nothing there except the silvery path of the moon, leading out to the horizon.

  Kendra blinked and looked again.

  When nothing changed, she knew what had happened.

  Her shields hadn’t worked properly.

  More likely, they’d protected her fine until her powerful attraction to Graeme undermined her focus, causing her barriers to fall.

  Whatever the reason, Pennard’s first ghosts were coming to find her.

  And, not surprisingly, they were fishermen.

  Chapter 5

  “Kendra, are you unwell?”

  Kendra turned away from the window to find Graeme looking down at her, one dark brow raised in concern. He’d left his chair and now stood very close to her. So near that the room suddenly felt smaller than it was, as if the seafaring-­memorabilia-­decked walls had drawn in around them, forcing an intimacy that charged the air.

  “Sorry?” Blinking, she peered up at him, her mind’s eye still seeing the fleet of herring boats coming in on the tide, their riding lights glittering like diamonds on the night-­blackened water.

  They had been there.

  She knew what she’d seen.

  And that meant the fleet could reappear any moment. Years of experience with those of the Otherworld had taught her that when the departed wished an audience, they could be as determined as any mortal who sported a flesh-­and-­blood body. In some cases, ghosts were even more persistent.

  Anything was possible.

  Now just wasn’t a good time to be confronted by an angry group of crusty, eighteenth-­century herring fishermen. Much as she felt for them. So she forced an air of calm, hoping the fleet’s arrival was only a bit of spectral theatrics. That, too, wasn’t uncommon.

  She’d seen ghosts in all shapes and sizes, and every kind of manifestation from barely-­there shadows to full-­bodied apparitions only discernible as spirits because she caught ripples of the glow surrounding them. Some didn’t even have that telltale signature. Ghosts were as varied as living people’s personalities. Their antics equally so. Nothing surprised her.

  Except, perhaps, how few people saw them.

  Everyone was capable of it, if only they weren’t conditioned from childhood to see and believe only what they could accept as real.

  She knew better.

  And sometimes, when others were caught off guard and did glimpse a ghost, they became believers, too.

  “You’ve gone pale.” Graeme looked at her in a way that made her want to squirm.

  “I’m fine.” She could see he didn’t believe her.

  He stepped closer, placed a hand on her shoulder. “You could use some fresh air.” He glanced across the pub to the door, then back to her. “A walk along the waterfront will do you good.”

  “I haven’t finished my dinner.” She wasn’t about to go out into the cold, dark night with him.

  The cold, she didn’t mind.

  Darkness was a different matter entirely.

  The softly gleaming harbor lights, the wash of the sea and all that drifting, half-­luminous mist could work on the psyche, planting romantic notions and bringing a man and a woman closer together.

  One kiss was enough.

  “You’ve only two bites of haddock left on your plate.” Graeme squeezed her shoulder, torpedoing her excuse.

  “I…” She couldn’t finish.

  Graeme saw to that, giving her a seductive smile that slid right past her defenses. “Just a short walk, lass. No more.” But even as he spoke, he curled his hand around her nape, sliding his fingers beneath her hair, caressing her gently. “Jock needs to stretch his legs.”

  The dog was still sprawled on the stone floor, his snores louder than ever.

  Kendra’s chin came up. “He looks comfortable to me.”

  The dog cracked one eye, proving he was listening.

  “It’s all show, as you’ll soon see.” Graeme pulled a few pound notes from his pocket, anchoring them on the table with his ale glass.

  Jock sprang to his feet, beside them in a flash.

  “My dog loves his walks.” Graeme reached down to rub Jock’s ears. Looking back to Kendra, he lifted a brow. “You’ll not want to disappoint him, what?”

  Kendra glanced at the dog, knowing she was outmaneuvered.

  Sensing her capitulation, Graeme grinned and reached for her hand, pulling her to her feet. He
helped her into her jacket and then led her to the door, holding it open as Jock shot outside before them.

  Kendra braced herself as Graeme pulled her over the threshold, pausing only briefly to close the inn door. He still gripped her wrist and—­she didn’t even want to think it—­if any men from the herring boats meant to seek her out, they’d have an audience of two.

  Three, if she included Jock.

  Everyone knew dogs could see ghosts.

  But nothing stirred anywhere except the small, decidedly modern fishing craft bobbing at their moorings in the harbor. The night had turned colder, and a chill mist drifted down the empty street. Deserted, it was, except for a big, gruff-­faced man in gum boots and a yellow oilskin, apparently a present-­day fisher. He was leaning against the red phone box across the road from the inn, his gaze on the Laughing Gull’s cozily lit windows.

  Kendra’s nape prickled on seeing him.

  He was solid and didn’t have a tinge of spectral glow edging him as ghosts so often did.

  Still…

  She’d encountered more than one ghost who looked as flesh-­and-­blood real as anyone’s next door neighbor. One never knew, and she often had to bite her lip to keep from telling skeptics that they might have seen plenty of ghosts and just not realized it at the time.

  So the fisherman’s solidity wasn’t a guarantee that he was a living man.

  She also heard a slight, high-­pitched ringing in her ears that often signaled a spirit’s presence. But Graeme was hurrying her across the street in the opposite direction. Her powerful attraction to him and the way his strong, warm fingers held her wrist sent ripples of awareness through her entire body, making it difficult to focus on the older man lounging against the phone box.

  He did look their way then, bending to pat Jock as the dog trotted by him. Jock was clearly more interested in sniffing along the marina walk than stopping to greet someone who didn’t have a treat at hand. The pavement smells and the cold night air, flavored with hints of brine, proved a greater temptation.

  When the man straightened, smiling after the dog, Kendra decided she’d erred.

  The man’s attention was on the Laughing Gull Inn, not her.

  Even so, she slowed her feet, glancing back at him.

  It was then that Graeme stopped before a small alleyway between two tiny cottages on the seaward side of the street. Small enough to be dollhouses, the low, thick-­walled cottages had doors and windows that were tightly boarded and gave off the resigned air of houses so long abandoned that they’d forgotten what it was like to have someone walk inside and greet the place as a home.

  The tight space between the cottages ran straight to the water’s edge. And except at the far end, where one

  of the harbor lights cast a reflection on the nearby water, the narrow alleyway was dark and filled with dank, briny air.

  “Come, you.” Graeme pulled her into those shadows, leading her down the alleyway to where a broken bench sagged against the wall. “We can speak here.”

  “I thought that’s what we were doing in the pub.” Kendra wasn’t keen on speaking with him here, in the cold dark of a narrow space between two centuries-­old cottages that positively reeked of sorrow.

  She looked past him to where Jock paced at the seaward end of the alleyway, his ears pricked as he stared into the water, seemingly fascinated by the reflection of the harbor lights.

  “Talking and”—­she turned back to Graeme, not missing that the grin he’d worn in the pub was gone—­“a few other things I’m still digesting.”

  “I won’t kiss you again, if that’s worrying you.” He let his gaze drop briefly to her mouth. She could tell even in the dimness. When he met her eyes again, he was all seriousness. “I needed to get you out of the Laughing Gull, somewhere we wouldn’t be overheard.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” That he could brush off such a kiss so easily made her testy.

  He angled his head, studying her. “I would’ve thought you’d understand.”

  Kendra crossed her arms against the cold and stepped away from him. “You’re a very unpredictable man, Graeme MacGrath. How can I begin to understand the motives for anything you choose to do?”

  “Because”—­he was right in front of her again, towering over her—­“when you were gazing out the inn window, you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Or perhaps a fleet of ghost ships, as that’s what you claimed.”

  “I said no such thing.” His words made her throat go dry.

  “You didn’t have to.” He took her chin, turning her face back to him when she tried to glance away. “You said you saw the herring boats coming in on the tide. Everyone in the pub heard you.”

  “So?” She jerked free of his grasp and flicked her hair behind an ear. “I saw the path of the moon glittering on the water. The boats I fancied I saw out there were an illusion, nothing more.”

  She hoped he’d believe her.

  The look he gave her said he didn’t. “Whether you saw a few moon sparkles on the water or whate’er, the problem is that Scots are a superstitious lot. This might be an age of air travel and instant Internet gratification, but if you scratch the surface of any Scot’s psyche, you’ll find someone who believes in second sight, the evil eye, and all manner of other things our ancestors knew lurked in the mist, including haints. We call them bogles hereabouts—­ghosts to you.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Kendra spoke the lie with the ease of long practice.

  Ghostcatchers International drilled their staff to always be discreet. Zack’s favorite credo was never to draw attention to oneself on duty. The business had been built on trust, not sensationalism.

  Kendra’s assignments, in particular, were highly sensitive ones.

  Most historic societies didn’t want the slightest hint of a haunting to tinge a site’s reputation.

  So she didn’t turn a hair when Graeme narrowed his eyes at her, his gaze dark and piercing. “This isn’t your America, lass. And Pennard, this whole stretch of coast, is a powerfully uncanny place.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “So I have, aye.” He glanced down the alleyway, ­toward the night-­blackened water. “There’s aye a grain o’ truth in old folklore and tradition.”

  “So you believe in such things?”

  “Let’s say I’ve lived long enough to accept that this world holds more than the eye can see.” He looked at her a bit challengingly then, as if he expected her to argue the point with him.

  She wasn’t about to disagree.

  She knew better than most that sometimes things weren’t as they appeared on the surface. And that mist often held more than air currents.

  But she held her tongue. She didn’t trust herself to speak rationally to him.

  He’d pronounced world as warld, his soft, deep voice pouring through her, his sexy Scottish burr getting the better of her.

  She tucked her hair behind an ear, trying to keep her gaze steady on his, her expression neutral so he wouldn’t guess that even now, just listening to him speak was enough to melt her resistance.

  It was true.

  And each word he spoke, every lilting syllable, set off curls of warmth low in her belly. Now, at last, she understood why so many American women swooned over Scottish men. It wasn’t the long, proud history and heritage, all the flashing plaid and swagger. Nor was it the swinging kilts and the age-­old mystery of what was or wasn’t beneath them.

  Above all else, it was the accent.

  Such an accent employed by Graeme MacGrath was beyond distracting.

  His dark good looks didn’t hurt, either. Tall and broad-­shouldered was always good, but his long black hair and thick eyelashes made him all the more irresistible. The harbor lights glinted in his ponytail, making the sleek strands gleam like ebony silk.

  That she noticed, now especially, really irritated her.

  But she couldn’t help it.

  Graeme wasn’t just a man. He was a force of nature
. No one had ever affected her so swiftly. She doubted anyone ever would again. And she couldn’t believe that up until just a short time ago, she would’ve said, if pressed, that an English accent was the world’s sexiest.

  Little did she know…

  She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. “I don’t see what my comment about lights at sea has to do with all this.” It was the only thing she could think to say. “Surely anyone who heard would have known I was mistaken. As you said at the time, there was nothing out there.”

  “Aye, there wasn’t.” He slid his fingers over her cheek, clearly meaning to underscore his words, but serving only to send delicious shivers across her nerves. “Even so, your talk of ghostly ships could stir trouble. I’d warn you no’ to mention the like again.”

  “I didn’t say anything about spectral ships,” Kendra reminded him. “Are the locals so frightened of bogles, as you call them, that one slip of the tongue by a tourist could upset them so badly?”

  “So it is, aye.” He was deadly serious. “Mainly because the boats as you described seeing them exactly matched the ghostly herring fleet said to sail these waters. The tales arise now and again, though most folk credit the sightings to phosphorescence in the water. Thing is”—­he leaned forward, his handsome face mere inches from hers—­“there have been a few odd happenings here lately. Some folk are worried that the fishermen of yore are returning and creating havoc to show their displeasure with Scotland’s Past’s plans to turn the village into a living history museum.”

  He stepped back, gesturing to a lamppost at the seaward end of the alleyway. Even through the mist, enough light fell across the poster tied to the lamppost for the large black words to be legible.

  SAVE PENNARD. STOP SCOTLAND’S PAST.

  Kendra read the sign twice, guilt pinching her. No, the big hand-­painted letters felt more like a solid kick in the gut, a blow executed with steel-­tipped boots.

  “What kind of havoc has been going on?” She looked back at Graeme, seeing his anger in the hard set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes.

  “Little things at first, they were.” He took her arm, leading her to the end of the alley and out onto the marina walk. Jock had moved off and was now shifting about near the stone slipway, sniffing seaweed and a large, wet pile of fish netting. “Old Widow Wallace, who has the last cottage on the opposite end of the village from mine, found all her washing off the line and down in the burn beneath her back garden. At the time, she thought it was the wind, but a week later a large stone quern she keeps propped against the wall beside her door went missing.