Haunted Warrior Page 9

  “It was found in the same place.” Graeme glanced at her. “Such a grinding quern is so big”—­he extended his arms, showing her the width—­“and so heavy a single man couldn’t lift one.”

  “I doubt a ghost could, either.” Kendra knew well that spirits could move things. But even she doubted that their capabilities could match the weight of a large, superheavy stone quern of earlier centuries. She’d seen them often enough and was sure of it.

  “Sounds like teenage pranksters to me.” That she could believe. “But”—­this bothered her because she’d always thought of Scotland as a place apart, a world unto itself, and exempt from such troubles as Graeme described—­“why would anyone target a helpless old woman?”

  His lips twitched. “Widow Wallace might be on the far side of eighty, but she’d bristle if she heard you call her helpless. She’s as feisty as they come and proud of the vinegar in her veins, as she calls it.

  “Could be she was harassed because she was the first local to say she’d consider Scotland’s Past’s offer for her cottage.” Graeme shrugged and then called a quick “No” to Jock, who’d started pawing at the fish nets. “She doesn’t like her daughter-­in-­law, and thought she’d outfox her family by taking the money and living the high life for what years she has remaining. Her son and his wife, whom the widow speaks of as the shrew, wouldn’t inherit her home.”

  “If her daughter-­in-­law is a pill, more power to her.” Kendra liked the old woman, sight unseen. “Has anything else happened?”

  “Not to Widow Wallace, and that’s as well because the trouble escalated soon after the incident with her quern.” Graeme glanced to where her cottage must be, at the far end of the small fishing village. High above, on its ledge halfway up the bluff, the lights of Gavin Ramsay’s Spindrift glimmered through the mist. “You may have noticed the blue-­painted benches everywhere in Pennard?”

  He turned back to Kendra, and her heart raced at his nearness, making it hard to concentrate. “I have, and they’re lovely.”

  She looked toward the nearest one, set directly before the water some yards beyond the slipway. With wood-­slatted seats and backs but swirled, wrought-­iron sides painted royal blue, the benches appeared to be a hallmark of the small fishing village. They were placed at regular intervals along the waterfront and also stood beside several cottage doors, such as at Graeme’s home, the Keel.

  The benches were just one of the notes of quaintness that made Pennard special. The haar obscured all the benches except the one by the slipway, but that same mist shimmered along the rocky foreshore like curtains of luminous silk, softening edges and giving a quiet, wistful feel to the tiny fishing hamlet. Kendra pushed back her hair and took a deep, calming breath, trying to remain unaffected. Just as she avoided getting involved with locals on assignment, she strove not to fall in love with a work site.

  Yet…

  Despite the dark undertones and bits of desolation like the two empty cottages framing the alleyway they’d just left, Pennard did have the kind of charm that she could so easily allow to wrap around her, catching hold and stealing her heart before she knew what had happened. And then it would be even harder to leave.

  A warning flickered across her mind, cautioning her that Pennard and its local seal man might prove more than she could handle.

  In the space of a very short time, Graeme had ripped away her usual restraint. He’d excited and fascinated her, challenged her, and even closed his door in her face. Yet he’d rescued her twice, once at the top of the cliff road and again in the Laughing Gull when Gavin Ramsay had come on to her. With one look from his compelling, dark eyes and the single flash of a dimpled smile, he’d swept her off her feet. He’d made her desire him, surprised her with a kiss she’d never forget, and, worst of all, he made her feel and want things that just weren’t good for her.

  She could drive away in the morning. Her bag wasn’t even unpacked. There was still time to phone Zack and ask him to put someone else on the Pennard assignment. Leaving was an option and probably her best and most sensible plan. No work went well when the heart became involved, the mind distracted. And yet if she left now, she knew that more than Pennard’s ghosts would haunt her.

  She glanced again at the bench by the slipway, her heart thundering.

  “Don’t be fooled by the pretty blue paint.” Graeme’s rich Scottish voice came from right beside her. “Thon bonnie benches began the worst terror we’ve seen in these parts in many long years.”

  Glancing at him, Kendra met his gorgeous, dark eyes and knew she wasn’t going anywhere. Not even if he declared that the benches turned into Pictish warriors at midnight and went on bloodthirsty killing rampages while the innocent villagers slept.

  “Benches can’t hurt anyone.” Kendra turned her gaze back on the water, not wanting him to see her face and guess how strongly she was attracted to him. “I think”—­she clasped her hands behind her back, striking a casual pose—­“you’re just trying another tactic to scare me away.

  “If so, it won’t work.” She kicked a pebble into the water and then glanced at him. “I don’t frighten easily.”

  “Except”—­he smoothed strands of hair from her face—­“when challenged by a plunging Scottish road?”

  “That’s different.” She resisted the urge to close her eyes and lean into his touch, for he kept his hand on her face, his fingers lightly stroking her cheekbone.

  Any moment, she would melt into a puddle at his feet.

  Instead, she collected herself, purposefully ignoring the sensations stirred by his caress. “So, what’s with the benches? Why should I worry about them?”

  “You shouldn’t.” He lowered his hand, his face serious again. “The benches were instruments only. ­Someone—­”

  “They all landed in the burn behind Widow Wallace’s cottage?”

  “Nae, but you’re close.” He paused when Jock trotted up to them, nudging Graeme’s jacket pocket until he retrieved a bit of dried meat and gave it to the dog. “Someone threw all the village’s benches into the bay from the end of the marina’s longest pier. One of the benches”—­he dusted his hands, looking back at her—­“had a dummy chained to it, the words Scotland’s Past painted in black across the mannequin’s forehead. The inference was plain.”

  “That Scotland’s Past’s representatives would meet a similar fate?” Kendra couldn’t repress a shudder.

  “So it was believed, aye.” Graeme’s voice was low and calm, but his anger was evident. “Not long thereafter, once the benches had all been retrieved, repaired, and returned to their places, one of the historic society’s workmen reported a missing compressor.

  “It, too, was found in the sea.” He reached down to stroke Jock’s head when the dog leaned into him. “I found it at low tide not far from a wee cave at my end of the village. The thing was around the bluff from the cave, half hidden in the rocks. Whoever threw it there did so with enough might to put some good-­sized dents into the machine.”

  Kendra frowned. “That doesn’t sound possible. I’ve seen plenty of compressors back home.” Her apartment complex had undergone a horrid and lengthy refurbishment during the past year, and she’d grown to hate the boxy, infernally loud compressors used by the construction workers. “I can’t imagine anyone being able to throw such a thing with enough force to dent it.”

  “Aye, well…” Graeme leaned toward her, his gaze intent. “Some would say that would depend on who or what did the throwing.”

  “Don’t tell me the locals think ghosts from an eighteenth-century fishing fleet did it.” Kendra imagined they did believe just that.

  “Some do, aye.” Graeme confirmed her guess. “But then…”

  He paused to drag a hand down over his chin. “Then,” he continued, “other things started happening, and to locals who have been especially vocal in their protests against the Pennard Project. Cow manure was poured down the chimney of Agnes Leith’s cottage, the woman who makes the anti–­Sc
otland’s Past posters tacked about the village. And tar and feathers were smeared all over the new double-­paned windows another protestor had just had installed at his cottage.

  “The man was Seth Walker, and he’d used his just-­received retirement bonus to pay for the windows.” A muscle jerked in Graeme’s jaw. “We all pitched in to replace the windows and helped clean up the mess. But the goings-­on have unsettled folk. With the like happening to those supporting Scotland’s Past and also those against the project, it’s hard to say who’s responsible.”

  “So people think it’s supernatural?” Kendra glanced at him to see his response.

  “That’s why I had to get you out of the Laughing Gull.” He slid an arm around her, pulling her close when the wind renewed its gusts, blasting them with chill, salt-­laden air. “Tempers are frayed enough without the innocent quip of a tourist setting them all off again.”

  “I understand.” Kendra tried to pull away, but he only tightened his hold on her. “We’re not in the pub now. You don’t have to pretend—­”

  He still didn’t let go. “Once you’ve been here a while, you’ll know why I just reached for you. And”—­his lips quirked in a brief smile—­“that all Scots have eyes in the backs o’ their heads.”

  “Pardon?” Kendra’s pulse raced to feel his strong, solid warmth pressed against her.

  “The lace curtains of at least two cottages across the road twitched just now.” He glanced at her, clearly bemused. “We’re under observation, lass.”

  “Oh.” Kendra’s heart dipped. She’d thought he was being gallant because of the wind.

  Or that he just might be attracted to her.

  As it was, he just wanted it to look that way.

  “I hope you’re not going to kiss me again.” She wished he would.

  “No worries. I promised you I wouldn’t.” He made it sound as if she should be glad.

  “Of course. I’d forgotten.” Kendra swallowed her disappointment.

  “Then I hope I’ve reassured you?” He lifted a brow.

  Kendra could’ve groaned.

  “You have.” She gave him her brightest smile.

  “Good. Then you won’t have any qualms about going out with me on the Sea Wyfe tomorrow.” He gave her a wink and hurried her across the road, back toward the inn. “I’ll call for you after breakfast, around nine, as Iain serves early.”

  “Wait…” Kendra pulled back, stopping just before he could open the inn door for her. “Isn’t the Sea Wyfe your boat?”

  “Aye, she is.” He smiled and pulled her close, lowering his head as if to kiss her. Instead, he just rested his head against her hair, speaking in her ear. “Folk will wonder if we’ve just been reunited and I don’t take you out on the water with me tomorrow.

  “Consider it a free boat outing to see some really special seals.” He straightened, seeming pleased with himself. And—­Kendra just looked at him—­as if the matter was all set and arranged.

  “Nine sharp, America.” He squeezed her shoulder and then turned on his heel, disappearing into the mist before she could argue.

  And it was as she stared after him that she saw the big, gruff-­faced fisherman again. As before, he was leaning against the red phone box across from the Laughing Gull. Still wearing his yellow waterproof jacket and gum boots, he was once again staring fixedly at the inn’s windows.

  There was only one difference.

  This time, Kendra could see right through him.

  Chapter 6

  Kendra froze, her fingers gripping the door latch of the Laughing Gull Inn. Across the road, Pennard’s first phantom resident to appear to her continued to lean against the red phone box. His jacket and boots glittered with beads of water, as if he’d just come from a place where it had rained. More likely, the droplets were sea spray.

  His gruff face was fierce, despite its shimmering translucency. And as before, he didn’t look at Kendra. His piercing blue gaze remained on the windows of the inn’s pub restaurant.

  Someone, most likely the innkeeper, had propped a large, hand-­painted Project Pennard protest sign inside the window nearest the door. It was this poster that seemed to earn the specter’s wrath.

  His bearded jaw was tightly set and he’d lowered his bushy gray brows so they appeared as a thick, fearsome line across his brow.

  Kendra studied him, not yet trusting herself to move. Instead she took a series of deep, calming breaths. As always when confronted with a discarnate she wished to communicate with, she relaxed her shields, allowing her aura’s energy to warm and shine their brightest.

  The ghost didn’t react.

  He kept his vigil at the phone box, where the soft light from a nearby lamppost illuminated his broad face. Kendra could tell that at some point in his earthly life, he’d broken his large, bulbous nose.

  His contemporary clothing and the flash of a watch on his wrist revealed more, showing that he’d been a fisherman of fairly recent times.

  The longer she watched him, the more the air filled with the unmistakable tang of herring and brine, the strong fishy smell underscoring the ghost’s lifelong association with the sea.

  He was clearly a man of Pennard.

  And something here was making him unhappy.

  Kendra had a good notion what. Darkness circled him like an impenetrable wall, letting her also know that his grievance went deep. Distress fueled by strong energy and emotions from the past.

  The kind of ghost who’d loved his home so much in life that even death couldn’t make him leave.

  Such souls refused to settle into dust.

  For them, the old days never faded away, but lived on just as they did. When they saw their world threatened, some tried to intervene. Sadly, they rarely achieved more than giving the odd chill to a few receptive people and making themselves miserable.

  The ghost’s unhappiness pulsed in the thin haze of darkness surrounding him.

  Kendra’s compassion welled, her heart clenching as always when she had to gaze on a spirit’s suffering.

  She had to reach him.

  Wishing such an encounter could’ve happened elsewhere, she glanced up and down the narrow street. The hour had grown late, and no one moved anywhere on the waterfront. But muffled rock music escaped the grimy windows of a tiny pub she’d noticed at the opposite end of the village from Graeme’s cottage. Called the Mermaid, the place looked more like a bar or tavern than a pub.

  It had a seedy, rough-­around-­the-­edges air even from a distance. And the low beat of some indistinguishable heavy metal tune underscored her negative impression. Kendra loved Beethoven and Mozart, Celtic rock, and mystical New Age tunes. The discordant strains from the Mermaid jarred the nighttime calm.

  Suppressing a shudder, she tore her gaze from that direction before the bar’s dubious atmosphere could tinge her perception.

  Everywhere else along Harbour Street appeared quiet. Even the empty house she’d noticed on arrival seemed still now, its earlier menace gone. Cold mist hung over the marina, and thick clouds covered the moon. Lampposts glimmered, each one a loving replica of an old-­timey gas lantern. Their soft glow spilled across the street’s glistening pavement. And although she could hear the murmur of voices and the clink of glasses and cutlery from within the Laughing Gull’s thick whitewashed walls, the noise wasn’t disruptive.

  Kendra just had to hope no one came outside.

  She also stole a moment for a long glance down Harbour Street toward the Keel. She didn’t need to be reminded of Graeme. Her entire body and all her senses went into overdrive just thinking about him. And this wasn’t a good time for such an indulgence.

  Not with an unhappy ghost right across the road, needing her undivided attention.

  So she took another deep, cleansing breath, grateful that the night’s darkness and drifting mist strengthened the illusion of being alone.

  With the aid of long practice, she blotted the noise from the Mermaid from her mind, closing her ears—­her wo
rld—­to the beat of the music and the sounds of the rowdy crowd inside the bar.

  She also raised a mental wall between herself and the Laughing Gull, willing the invisible barrier to hold off the buzz of conversation and other sounds slipping out into the street from within the cozy inn. The noise wasn’t jarring like the heavy metal music from the Mermaid, but she raised her protective shields all the same. Any distraction could shatter her concentration.

  Then she focused, delving deep so that her aura would glow even brighter. She asked the powerful white-­light energy to cleanse and bless a sacred circle of space around her.

  Such a purification rite was necessary to banish negative psychic imprints that may have been left behind by any number of occurrences. A couple arguing, someone’s depression, or even the sadness of a homeless animal could all impact the atmosphere. There was always the possibility of dark, low-­level energies hovering near if even a trace of negativity stained a place.

  And once she opened herself fully, making contact with the unseen realm, Kendra knew she was vulnerable to attack from such entities.

  So she never greeted a ghost without first practicing psychic self-­defense.

  It was a ritual she’d done so often, she needed only a few seconds before the protective energy rose, flowing through and around her.

  Only then did she return her attention to the phone-­box ghost, allowing her consciousness to slip into her most receptive state. The spirit still hadn’t looked her way, his fierce gaze remaining fixed on the inn’s front windows. But the dark haze around him wavered a bit now, as if his own deepest subconscious was becoming aware of her.