Haunted Warrior (13 page)

Closer by, lights twinkled in a few of the cottages, and threads of bluish peat smoke rose from chimneys. The rhythmic wash of the sea against the harbor breakwater struck her as the most soothing sound she’d heard in a long while. Then her heart squeezed when a foghorn echoed, muffled as if from a great distance.

Pennard wore quiet well.

She could get used to such peace and tranquillity. Just as she could to feeling Graeme’s strong arms sliding around her, his hands gripping her face as he dipped his head to kiss her. He’d taken her breath, whisking her into another world. A place where nothing mattered except the moment and how wonderful it had felt to be held fast against him.

Stop right now.

Her good sense shouted the words. And she knew better than to ignore them. So she inhaled deeply and lifted her chin, steeling herself to breeze back inside the Laughing Gull. She’d look carefree, as if nothing was on her mind except heading up the stairs to her room for the sound night’s sleep awaiting her there.

Unfortunately, when she opened the inn door and stepped inside, she nearly collided with Janet, who was sweeping the entry.

“On your own now, are you?” The older woman clutched her broom, not budging. Instead, she lifted a brow, peering sharply at Kendra.

“I did book a single room.” Kendra kept her poise in place.

Janet leaned forward. “So you did, aye.” Her tone didn’t warm at all. “And the room’s ready for you, it is. I was just up there to turn down the bed and leave a wee dram on the night table.”

“Thanks. But that wasn’t necessary.” Kendra tried to step past her.

“It’s tradition.” Janet straightened, her chest puffing on the words. “The Laughing Gull is an ancient inn. We still do things the old way. A turned-­down bed and a night dram are courtesies we uphold.”

“I understand.” Kendra just wanted to sleep.

“Humph.” Janet surveyed her, one brow inching upward again, as if to imply she doubted any tourist could grasp the desire to cling to heritage and culture. “Pride of place matters here, even if there be some who’ve forgotten the like.” She bristled, two spots of red blooming on her cheeks. “Poxy souls they are, wanting to make Pennard a theme park.”

Kendra started to speak—­she really did sympathize—­but Janet had already turned away, resuming her broom attack on the stone-­flagged floor.

Starting to nip around her, Kendra paused when a door marked PRIVATE banged open and a young, wild-­haired girl swept into view.

Janet stopped sweeping the floor at once, some of the sternness leaving her face.

Seeing the older woman, the girl flashed a smile.

Twenty at most, she had the whitest skin Kendra had ever seen. And the kohl around her eyes was as black as her long, curling hair. A tiny gold ring winked from the
end of her left eyebrow and—­Kendra blinked—­a ruby-­red stud glittered beneath the girl’s bottom lip.

Plump but well made, she was what Zack liked to call a handful of woman. She also looked slightly out of time in her long, flowing, peasant-­style dress. Wine red, the gown could’ve been a relic from the sixties and was low-­cut to show off her bosom. At least what could be seen of it beneath the torn denim jacket she was pulling on even as she’d burst into the entry hall.

She reminded Kendra of a gypsy, and was pretty in an earthy, untamed way.

She also wasn’t a stranger at the Laughing Gull, because she went right up to Janet, kissing the older woman noisily on the cheek.

“Thanks, auntie!” She patted the pocket of her jacket. “You’ve saved us again. Roan will pay you back as soon as the regulars—­”

“Never you mind, lassie.” Janet took the girl’s elbow and steered her along the narrow passage. “Though”—­she opened the outside door, letting in cold air—­“I’ll not be helping him again if he…” The wind picked up then and Kendra didn’t catch the rest of her words.

“My niece, Maili.” Janet glanced at Kendra as she shut the door behind the girl. “She’s a good lass.” She started sweeping again, a bit more vigorously than before. “Pity is her boyfriend, Roan Wylie, who owns the Mermaid, a wee pub up the road, is aye letting his friends drink without paying for their ale.”

She frowned, jabbing the edge of her broom at a corner. “Now the lad is telling everyone he’s selling the Mermaid to Scotland’s Past. Foolish loon thinks they’ll pay him a fortune.” She darted another look at Kendra. “He wants to open a new pub in Glasgow, right on Sauchiehall Street, saying it’ll be the biggest and ­finest—­”

She broke off, flushing as if she’d just realized she’d been pouring out family gossip to a stranger. “Aye, well!” She went to the other corner, employing her broom with a vengeance. “There be lots of folk hereabouts thinking the like. They’re blinded by dreams of grandeur.”

“Many people are.” Kendra needed only to recall the scores of hopeful ghostcatchers who constantly called Zack or flooded the Ghostcatchers headquarters in Bucks County. People who mistakenly believed the organization would get them on national television, making them celebrities.

Once they learned Zack Walker ran his business on a lower-­than-­low profile, most would-­be recruits took a fast track to the door.

They wanted fame.

Not hard work they couldn’t even discuss in public.

And if she was going to get any work done, she needed a good night’s rest.

Janet had other plans.

“Humph.” The older woman’s face darkened as she swept along the edge of the wall, her bulk and her fast-­moving broom blocking Kendra’s path to the stairs. “Think they can all be legends, they do. Poor Maili”—­she arced the broom in a half circle around Kendra’s feet—­“has the voice of an angel, that girl. Thought she’d enter a talent show up Inverness way, sure she’d win and become a star.

“Do you ken what happened?” She stopped, clutching her broom in a white-­knuckled grip. “The only
win
she pulled in was an offer to spend the night with one of the event’s sponsors. Roan Wylie heard the man hassling her and slid his arm around her, claiming he was her boyfriend. Now he is and”—­she took an agitated breath—­“Maili spends her days serving up pub grub and pints at the Mermaid.”

“She’s young.” Kendra didn’t know what else to say. “She’ll find her way.”

Janet sniffed. “Not if she doesn’t learn that a handful of pebbles from the shore outside thon windows is worth more than all fame’s gold. Fool’s gold, the like is, good for naught but sorrow and bother.

“Why else would all the townies up from Scotland’s Central Belt and the Londoners aye be moving to the Highlands and hereabout?” She set her hand on her hip, her chin jutting fiercely. “Sooner or later, they ken what really matters and want a piece of it. The tartan dream calls to them, beckoning with images of heathery moors, fresh air, deep glens, and misty hills.”

Kendra took a breath, unable to argue.

If she could, she’d move to Pennard in a heartbeat. No regrets.

But Janet was still looking huffy, her piercing stare underscoring her opinion of incomers. “I’m surprised your beau hasn’t—­”

“My beau?” Kendra spoke before she could catch herself.

“The MacGrath.” Janet eyed her suspiciously, now standing before the door marked PRIVATE. “He knows better than most how eager some are to get their hands on good property up here.” She shook her head, opening the door to release a waft of delicious cooking smells and the clatter of plates and the bustle of a working kitchen into the entry.

“Hard to believe he’s said nothing.” She flashed Kendra one last look before stepping through the door, taking her broom with her.

Kendra blinked at the closed door, the neat little sign warning away trespassers.

Laughing Gull’s kitchen was off-­limits to her.

As was Pennard, even if she was loathe to leave after her work stint ended. She wasn’t like the Central Belt Scots or Londoners seeking a quiet life away from the crowds and hectic of the city. Nor did she have the good fortune of her neighbors to the north, the Canadians. They had the advantage of birthright and could pack up and move to Pennard or anywhere else in Scotland that they wished to go.

She was American.

She couldn’t pop across the Big Pond and claim a piece of a tiny Scottish community just because the place appealed to her.

She also had no business allowing her whole world to be upturned by a sexy, dark-­eyed Scotsman. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him. He fascinated her. And now that he’d held her, even kissed her, she wanted more.

Being crushed against him hadn’t just excited her; it’d felt right. True, his strong arms around her had sent delicious shivers rippling through her. But a flood tide of warmth had swept her, as well. And it’d been a heady kind of warmth, as if they belonged together.

She’d also seen the desire in his eyes.

And—­she touched a hand to her breast—­she was sure he’d recognized how powerfully she’d reacted to him. She could melt recalling how he’d gripped her face, his fingers sliding through her hair as he’d kissed her, claiming her mouth with his, tasting her with his tongue.

She wanted such a kiss from him again, preferably more than one. Long, hard kisses that took her breath and electrified her, making her forget he was the one man she couldn’t allow herself to want so badly.

Unfortunately, she did.

And—­she blinked, stopping just before the steep and
narrow stairs to her room—­it didn’t help to see his handsome face staring at her from a framed photograph on the entry wall.

Or so she thought, until she went over to the picture and took a closer look.

Part of a collection of wood-­framed photographs grouped on the wall near the kitchen door, the pictures were from the previous century. Some even dated back to the mid-­1800s, according to the tiny brass plaques on the bottom of the frames.

One grainy photo showed six fisher girls in their Sunday-­best clothes. Also known as herring girls, named after their work of gutting and cleaning the fish caught each day, they looked proud to be dressed in style. Three girls sat with another three standing behind, each resting a hand on the shoulder of the girl sitting before her. Their high-­buttoned, white-­aproned dresses marked them as Victorian, as did their stilted poses and frozen-­faced expressions.

Another photo was captioned PENNARD 1890 and captured a few of the village’s low, whitewashed cottages. Several women sat outside their homes, knitting or baiting fishing lines while a stern-­faced, bearded man looked on, smoking his pipe as the women toiled.

A photo of the herring fleet leaving Pennard gave Kendra chills. She stepped closer, examining the little stone marina and the numerous boats sailing out of the harbor. The fleet stretched the length of the horizon and filled the vast expanse of water between. Just as the lights from the spectral fleet had indicated a countless number of herring boats on the night-­darkened sea.

Kendra rubbed her arms, suddenly cold.

Now more than ever, she was sure of what she’d seen.

But it was the blurry photograph of the crew of a
trawler that really caught her eye, punching her like a blow to the chest.

The boat, named
Josephine
, according to the picture frame, was at anchor in Pennard Bay. Her crewmen stood or sat near the harbor wall, each man wearing light trousers, a dark vest, and a seaman’s cap. Their faces appeared well-­scrubbed, their hair neatly combed, as if each man hoped to look his best for the photographer.

One man stood out from the rest.

And not because a large white dog with one black eye and ear sat beside him, its gaze full of adoration as he looked up at his master.

Beneath the old-­fashioned clothes and hairstyle, the man could’ve been Graeme MacGrath.

And unlike his fellow fishermen, he was smiling. Although his smile was for the dog by his side and not aimed at the camera.

Kendra’s brow knit as she stepped closer to the wall, leaning in to peer hard through the picture glass. The likeness was astounding. She angled her head, reading the inscription twice.

There could be no mistake.

The little plate on the frame stated the men were the crew of the trawler
Josephine
, and dated the photo to the long-­ago year of 1875.

Still…

Something didn’t seem right to Kendra. She could feel the fine hairs lifting on her nape and sensed stirrings of doubt that prickled her skin.

“Looks just like him, eh?”

She jumped, wheeling about to find Iain Garry standing directly behind her.

“It’s amazing, yes.” She saw no point in pretending not to know what he meant.

“Graeme aye laughs about it.” The innkeeper rocked back on his heels, his gaze flicking to the photograph. “Thon trawlerman is your lad’s great-­great-­grandfather. His name was also Graeme.”

Kendra bit her lip, remembering her gaffe with Janet.

She understood Graeme’s reasons for wanting people to think they were a pair. She wouldn’t break his trust by telling the innkeeper Graeme wasn’t her lad. In truth, she wished that he was.

She also glanced away from Iain to look again at the crew of the
Josephine
. Even to her inexpert eyes, she could tell the photograph was genuine. It appeared as old as the little brass plate on the bottom of the frame said.

And it wasn’t just the family resemblance that jumped out at her.

It was more.

It was the strong bond between Graeme the trawlerman and his dog, a deep love that even hundreds of years and grainy, faded paper couldn’t diminish. With her heightened sensitivity, Kendra could feel their connection even through the cold glass of the picture frame.

Their love was so strong, it hit her like a blast of energy. Her heart raced, heat pumping through her.

Iain Garry didn’t seem to notice.

He did reach to tap the picture glass. “Your Graeme and his great-­great-­grandpappy have more in common than looks and a name. All the men in that family love dogs. Graeme’s no different with his Jock, aye? You ne’er see one without the other.” He smiled, lowering his hand.

“That’s true.” Kendra decided to play it safe.

Her mind was racing.