Haunted Warrior (7 page)

Almost finished, he reached the front of his house and stepped back onto the road. Setting down the pail beside his blue-­painted bench, he scooped up a handful of the seawater and flung the droplets above and beneath the cottage’s blue-­rimmed windows.

“No harm will come to this good and blessed place.” He took a breath, vowing not to let more than a month pass before he renewed the boundary ward.

To complete the blessing, he poured a thin line of water along the edge of the road, a necessity because Pennard’s single row of seafront houses all opened directly onto Harbour Street’s pavement.

“And I”—­he’d almost emptied the pail—­“will continue to guard this property to the best of my ability in all the days to come.”

It was only when he returned to the front door, expecting to have to cajole Jock into moving aside so he could dash the remaining water at the door lintel, that he noticed the dog was gone.

Sure Jock had gone looking for another tasty, normally off-­limits tidbit, Graeme finished the warding. He was just reaching to fix the last of the seaweed above the lintel when the dog popped his head around the door, peering out from the shadows of the entry.

It was a stealthy move.

And the cunning in Jock’s eyes made Graeme instantly suspicious.

He flashed a look at the dog as he worked the sea wrack around the two hooks that held it in place. “What are you about, laddie?”

“What are
you
about?” Kendra Chase appeared in the doorway, ducking beneath his raised arm to step out onto the stoop.

Graeme blinked, furious to have been caught unawares.

“What are you doing here?” He tossed the question back at her. “How did you get into my house?”

He could well guess.

His dog, the traitorous beast, proved his guilt by slinking back into the cottage’s darkened entry hall.

A place he hoped Kendra hadn’t spent too much time.

“Why are you putting seaweed above your door?” She eyed the dripping strands of wrack.

“I asked what you’re doing here.” Graeme spoke more harshly than he’d intended.

But his hand seemed frozen where it was, his fingers hovering over the seaweed he’d just threaded around the lintel hooks.

He knew he looked ridiculous.

He also had the distinct impression she’d seen him cross the road from the little strand. That somehow she’d read his face when he’d passed her car, and picked up the thoughts that had rushed him.

Thoughts he had no business harboring about her.

“Well?” She flicked another glance at his hand, still raised above his head.

“It’s an old Aberdeenshire tradition.” Graeme thought fast. “Fisher folk believe that a bit o’ tangle above the door keeps out the tidewater if a storm sends the seas surging up and o’er the road.”

To his shame, her eyes lit. “O-­o-­oh, I love that.”

“Humph.” Graeme refused to deepen the lie by commenting.

He did lower his arm. He also stepped away from her,
not liking how her scent wafted beneath his nose, distracting and enchanting him.

Everything about her did things to him, much to his annoyance.

He turned to face the sea, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “People hereabouts have many uses for seaweed. It’s used for fertilizer, as food when times are hard, for healing, and in legend.”

That was true enough.

“Folklore fascinates me.” Her voice took on a tone of wonder, making him feel even worse for having just invented the wisdom. “It’s such age-­old beliefs that make Scotland so much more romantic than the States.”

“You came for your car.” It was the only plausible reason for her to be here. And yet—­he shouldn’t go down this road—­despite everything, he wished she’d come to see him.

“I did, yes.” She didn’t deny it, her voice oddly businesslike now. “I wanted to stretch my legs after the drive, and there seemed no point in expecting you to bring the car to the inn.

“Not”—­she tucked her hair behind an ear, her smile cutting straight to his heart—­“when I was out walking right past here, anyway. Jock was on the stoop and—­”

“He let you in.” Graeme was sure of it.

“I did mean to knock.” A becoming wash of pink bloomed on her cheeks. “I called out, but when you didn’t answer, Jock nudged open the door and trotted inside as if I should follow him. He kept stopping and looking back, wagging his tail. Of course, I—­”

“Were you in there long?” Graeme thanked the Powers that his dog hadn’t yet discovered how to turn on lights.

“Only a moment.” Kendra tightened her jacket against the wind.

“Aye, right, then.” Relief swept Graeme. “Your car key is just inside the lounge. I’ll fetch it, and you can be on your way.”

Rude as it seemed, he didn’t invite her in.

The reasons peered at him from an endless assortment of wall-­mounted picture frames as he strode purposefully down the cottage’s entry hall toward the door that opened into his lounge.

A motley collection, the frames were everything from age-­worn wood to silver, some of those tarnished. And each held a different picture. Some were quite blurry, sepia prints dating as far back as 1857. Others were clearer, packing a greater emotional punch because the canines caught on film were easier to recognize.

The photographs lined both sides of the entry. Nearly every imaginable breed had a place. Scottish deerhounds; Great Danes; Irish wolfhounds; innumerable terriers of all sizes; dachshunds; Labs, black and golden; and far too many mongrels to count. Dogs of all ages who, if viewed by someone with their heart in the right place and a sharp sense of observance, appeared to have the same eyes.

Even more startling, a small brass plate fixed to the bottom of each picture frame revealed that every dog bore the name Jock.

Only
Jock
was missing.

And Graeme dreaded the day his good friend would join the others.

Though he knew such a parting wouldn’t last long.

He also knew he didn’t want Kendra Chase stepping into the entry hall and chancing to study the photographs. If—­his gut twisted—­she hadn’t already done so.

She struck him as the sort who’d notice the dogs’ eyes.

And once she did…

Frowning, Graeme stepped into his lounge and
snatched her car keys off the lamp table by the door. Jock lay sprawled on his plaid before the hearth fire, feigning innocence as he did so well.

It was a talent he’d perfected.

He’d certainly had enough time to do so.

And thinking about
time
and its passing was one very good reason for Graeme to stop thinking about kissing the delectable American tourist waiting on his door stoop.

He also flashed an irritated glance at his dog. “Your false innocence doesn’t fool me.” He kept his voice low, not wanting Kendra to hear.

He knew Jock did because the dog’s ear twitched.

“I dinnae need a woman in my life. And”—­he paused before the lounge door—­“your tricks to push thon lassie beneath my nose won’t serve anything. She’ll be gone in a few days, away to her America, where she belongs.”

On his plaid before the hearth fire, Jock cracked one eye.

It was a look Graeme knew well.

And every time he’d seen it, Jock had won.

“No’ this time, laddie.” Graeme tightened his grip on the car keys and strode back down the entry hall, eager to place the keys in Kendra’s hand.

The sooner she left here, the better.

Meantime, he would look out for her from afar.

But something told him it would be a very long time before he could forget Kendra Chase.

Worst of all, he didn’t want to forget her.

“Ah, there’s yourself, lassie.”

Iain Garry, owner and proprietor of the Laughing Gull Inn, smiled as he raised the flap of the bar and came over to Kendra the instant he spotted her on the threshold of the hotel’s cozy pub restaurant.

“I’ve saved the best table for you.” A portly man of middle years, his rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes marked him as an easygoing, amiable soul. “Though”—­he beamed at her, his bald pate shining in the lamplight—­“as you can see, the locals prefer crowding the bar to sitting at tables. Yours is in thon corner, by the far window.”

Kendra looked to where he indicated, more than pleased. “That’ll suit me fine.”

Truth was, the entire pub restaurant delighted her. People did stand three deep at the long, polished bar. But even with such a crowd, she caught the gleam of old-­fashioned brass ale pumps and the glint of sparkling
glasses and bottles arrayed on wall shelves. Better yet—­to her love of all things old—­the stone-­flagged floor and low oak-­beamed ceiling lent an air of warmth and cheer that made her heart beat faster. As did the whitewashed walls, cluttered as they were with all manner of sea memorabilia, including a large, old-­timey photograph of herring fishers. A caption scrawled in white ink across the bottom of the picture declared, with implied pride, that the men had been a WILD ROUGH LOT.

“They were that, aye.” Iain followed her gaze as he steered her past the photo, dated to the late 1800s. “Men who make a living of the sea have to be tough, even nowadays. Though”—­he led her around a half barrel filled with smooth, silvered driftwood—­“their numbers decline each year. More the pity.”

“I know—­” Kendra broke off as a heavyset woman hurried past, carrying a large platter of fish and chips. The delicious smell made her mouth water.

The Laughing Gull Inn truly was her idea of heaven.

There was even a small hearth against the back wall, its glowing peat fire adding to the coziness.

Her table couldn’t have been more perfect.

Tucked by the corner window, the small table looked out over the street and marina. Just now, thick sea haar pressed against the windowpanes, but the mist only made the view more atmospheric.

As if all time stood still within the quaint confines of the little pub.

She could stay here, too.

Surely, there were worse fates.

Especially with a resident hunk like Graeme MacGrath living just down the road. Even if the sexy Scotsman seemed more keen on seeing her leave Pennard than on having her hang around. He’d certainly hurried
her from his house, closing the door in her face the instant he’d thrust the car keys into her hand. She hadn’t even had a chance to say good-­bye.

Kendra frowned, heat beginning to creep up her neck.

She wasn’t that bad.

She wouldn’t exactly call herself a head turner, but no man had ever given her such a brush-­off. And wasn’t it typical that, despite all, she still found him so damnably attractive. His accent so divine she’d almost be willing to beg him just to stand and talk to her for hours.

He could read her the telephone book or the impossibly thick instruction manual for her newest digital camera. It wouldn’t matter.

Anything at all would do. As long as she could listen to his rich, buttery-­soft burr washing over her like verbal silk, melting her.

Kendra touched a hand to her breast, trying not to think about him.

“Would you rather have a table by the fire?” Iain was looking at her, clearly mistaking her hesitancy for a wish to sit elsewhere.

“No, no…” Kendra quickly removed her heavy jacket and draped it onto the back of an empty chair before settling onto the window seat. “This is ideal.” She glanced over her shoulder at the mist rolling down the street and the blurry yellow halos cast by lights from a few of the fishing boats in the marina.

“I was hoping for just such a table.” She turned back to him, enchanted.

“Right, then.” The innkeeper’s smile returned. “I’ll have Janet bring you a menu.” He flicked a look after the bustling woman who’d delivered the tray of fish and chips to a nearby table. “We’ve fine sea bass on special tonight. Our pepper steak is also popular.”

“I know what I want.” Kendra reached to touch his arm when he turned to move away. “The fish and chips smelled so good going past just now. I’ll have that.”

“Fine choice.” Iain Garry nodded, not looking surprised.

No doubt every American tourist ordered fish and chips.

And that was fine, considering she was supposed to be one. Besides, if the Scots—­or any Brits, for that matter—­didn’t want tourists always asking for the tasty dish, they shouldn’t make it so irresistible.

Still…

She was sure she’d caught a few of a locals smirk at her choice.

“And, Iain…” She sat up straighter, flashing her most confident smile. “I’ll have a pint of Black Isle Brewery Hibernator stout.”

She’d seen the almost-­black ale on the neighboring table.

It looked potent enough to fell an elephant, and she could smell its richness from here. After the cliff road from hell and the force of nature that was Graeme MacGrath, she wouldn’t mind something that packed a bit of a punch.

“That’s strong ale, lass.” Iain sounded skeptical.

But the locals who’d chuckled at her dinner choice had lost their smirks.

And for that reason alone, she’d drink the stout. She’d just be sure to temper its kick with several large glasses of water.

“I’ve heard Hibernator is excellent.” Kendra smiled at the staring locals. “I’d like to try it.”

“You might prefer a nice Stella lager?” Iain tried one last time to dissuade her.

A flurry of exchanged glances and elbow nudges at
the bar helped her stay firm. “No, thanks. I’m sure it’s good, but…” She sat back in her seat and shook her head. “I’m sticking with the strong ale.”

Iain shot an annoyed look at the men at the bar, but nodded and left her.

It was then, once she was alone at the little corner table and the locals returned to their own business, that some of the pub’s coziness retreated. It was no more than a ripple in the air, yet a new and disturbing current had entered the atmosphere, tingeing the feel of the crowded room.

Kendra’s nape prickled, bringing back the ill ease she’d felt on first arriving in Pennard. An image of the empty house flashed across her mind, the strong aura of menace almost palpable again. The sensation had been fleeting, and had left her completely when she’d reached Graeme MacGrath’s cottage. But that could’ve been because she’d raised her guards, allowing protective white-­light energy to fill and surround her until she was ready to lower her shields so Pennard’s unhappy discarnates could approach her.