Haunted Warrior

by Allie Mackay

  “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.

  Chapter 3

  “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.

  Even then she’d been aware of something.

  Yet upon entering the Laughing Gull moments ago, she’d almost believed she’d imagined her initial reaction to the fishing village.

  Now…

  She tensed with a sense of keen awareness, her nerve endings alert to everything around her. Breathe deep. Relax. This is your night off to unwind and enjoy. A well-­deserved break. Inhale fully; exhale slow…​She spoke the words in her mind, using the soft orange glow of the fire’s peat bricks to focus on until she felt balanced again.

  “Your Hibernator, miss.” Janet, the serving woman, arrived with her pint of strong ale. Her expression said she didn’t approve of women drinking stout.

  “Thank you.” Kendra took a del
iberate sip, sure the woman also didn’t care for young American females visiting pubs on their own.

  “Anything else?” The woman looked at her, her lips tightening even more when Kendra took a second swallow of the dark ale.

  “A glass of water, please.” Kendra regretted asking, but impressing the dour Scotswoman wasn’t worth suffering a headache later. “I prefer still, if you have it—­no fizzy water.”

  Fizzy water made her stomach ache.

  Janet’s sourness made it difficult to reclaim the mood of cheery warmth that had greeted her on entering the inn. The woman’s disapproval hung in the air, even after she’d marched back to the bar.

  Blot her from your mind. Kendra glanced again at the peat fire, wishing it wasn’t half hidden by the legs of the nearby tables and chairs.

  Even so, the soft glimmer of the peat was soothing. And the earthy-­sweet smoke added just enough haze to the air to enhance the pub’s old-­fashioned, lamp-­lit ambience.

  Whatever had brought her here and the outcome of her stay, the Laughing Gull and the out-­of-­the-­way village outside the inn’s thick-­set windows was a special place, caught in a time long past.

  Almost inaccessible and sequestered, Pennard was just the kind of haven that should always remain serene and tranquil, a place apart from the rest of the world. Unaffected by the traffic-­filled brashness of loud, teeming cities and suburbs, as existed elsewhere.

  Kendra’s heart clenched when a small man with a weather-­beaten face caught her eye and gallantly tipped his cap to her as he hopped off his bar stool and headed for the door. Watching him as he stepped out into the cold, dark mist and disappeared into the whirling gray mass as easily as suited brokers strode down the streets of Manhattan drove home just how appealing she found little Pennard with its mini harbor, colorful fishing boats, and blue-­painted benches.

  She tightened her fingers on the pint glass, her gaze going again to the peat fire. Images of crowded sidewalks, exhaust fumes, and billboard-­lined highways flashed across her mind, quickly followed by strip malls, huge supermarkets with even larger parking lots, and an endless stream of fast-­food restaurants.

  “Damn…” She circled the pint glass on the polished wood of the small table.

  From the bar, she heard the soft music of Scottish voices. And through the window, she caught the wash of the sea against the harbor’s breakwater. But other sounds claimed her mind’s ear, reminding her of a place she knew well, a distant place where days often began with the rumble of garbage trucks, and leaf-­blower serenades always seemed to kick in just when a person most needed silence.

  She understood why Pennard’s locals weren’t happy about being forced from such a quiet and unobtrusive place.

  She, too, loved quiet.

  And for the first time ever, she felt an unpleasant pang at the thought of leaving an assignment and returning to her own world.

  But if she did her work well here, she might be able to help ensure that Pennard held on to a good measure of its perennial charm. And that the disembodied residents, at least, would find peace again.

  Hoping so, she took a tiny sip of Hibernator, her tension easing.

  “I admire a brave woman.” A deep Scottish voice caused her to almost choke on the ale.

  Looking up, she met the appreciative gaze of one the locals. He stood directly before her, managing to appear worldly-­wise despite his casual fisherman’s garb of jeans, work boots, and a bulky Aran sweater. Tall, broad shouldered, and blessed with a shock of gleaming black hair and clear blue eyes, he was also devilishly handsome.

  But in a smooth way that made her scoot back against the window bench, instinctively putting distance between them.

  “Brave?” It was all she could think to say.

  She did turn her head slightly, not liking how his cologne invaded her space. Heavy with musk and citrus, it spoiled the hint of peat smoke and fish and chips she’d been enjoying.

  “Courageous you are, aye.” He stepped even closer, his smile deepening. “It’s clear you’re not liking your pint of Hibernator.”

  “I love it.” Kendra took an overlarge gulp, hoping the lie wouldn’t circle back and make her gag.

  The dark ale was too much for her.

  But she’d rather choke it down than admit it.

  “I’m Gavin Ramsay. My house, Spindrift, is the one up on the bluff, beyond the east end of the village.” He thrust out a hand, leaving her little choice but to take it unless she wished to appear rude.

  She remembered the name, how Graeme MacGrath’s jaw had tightened as he’d spoken of Ramsay.

  Now here was the man, smiling down at her, his hand extended.

  And every local at the bar—­including Iain Garry and pinch-­faced Janet—­were turned their way, craning necks to watch them.

  “Kendra Chase.” She accepted the handshake, not surprised to find that though strong and warm, his hands weren’t at all calloused. They were smooth as a banker’s and nothing like one might expect of a man so ruggedly dashing and dressed in fisherman’s garb.

  “I’m American, here on holiday.” She withdrew her hand, leaving it at that. He didn’t need to know she hailed from Bucks County, Pennsylvania.

  He looked at her very intently. “Och, I ken you’re from the States. No other country produces such glamorous blondes. We don’t see many sleek, long-­legged beauties hereabouts.” He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, stretching his long legs to the fire. “That you’re here…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, his gaze flicking to her pint of strong ale. “I’ve ordered a fine welcome dram for you.” His voice turned intimate. “A wonderful single malt from Royal Brackla, one of the few distilleries privileged to carry the word royal in its name.”

  His rs rolled beautifully, his burr rich and smooth—­as if practiced to perfection.

  Kendra suspected it was.

  She also understood why Graeme didn’t care for the man.

  She didn’t, either.

  “I don’t drink whisky.” She glanced at her watch and started to get to her feet. If she didn’t leave now, she’d also tell him she couldn’t abide Romeos, Scottish or otherwise. “It’s late and—­”

  “You’d miss something very fine.” He smiled, apparently certain his charm would dissuade her. “Scottish whisky is water of life. Uisge beatha, in the Gaelic. You can’t visit Scotland without—­ Ah, here’s Janet with the drams.”

  He glanced up at the tight-­lipped woman, his smile not wavering as she set down the two small glasses. The whisky neat, save one ice cube in each dram.

  “Aye, a ray o’ sunshine, you are, Janet.” He watched her march off, waiting until she disappeared into the kitchen before he turned back to Kendra. “You see why you’re a breath of fresh air.”

  Kendra glanced at the closed kitchen door. “I saw a woman who must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning—­nothing more.”

  She didn’t add that she suspected Janet did so every day.

  Or that she couldn’t stand smooth talkers. Dressed as she was in her sturdy walking boots and warm and comfortable pants and pullover, she knew well that she looked anything but glamorous.

  She didn’t even like glamour.

  And she wouldn’t be a sleek beauty if she was wearing a string bikini.

  She might be tall and her legs therefore long. But there all resemblance to such females ended. And the truth was, she didn’t mind her extra few pounds. She also appreciated shoes and clothes that were comfortable.

  No one would catch her in heeled, strappy sandals. And she wouldn’t don a filmy wisp of a cling-­to-­every-­curve dress even if she could.

  She did sit up as straight as possible and pushed the little dram glass away from her. “My dinner should be here soon.” She kept her tone cordial, pride making flight impossible.

  So she tipped her head toward the bar, hoping her unwanted table guest would take the hint. “I don’t want to keep you from yo
ur friends.”

  To her dismay, he sat back, getting comfortable in his chair. “I like a challenge.” His blue eyes met hers, his smile roguish.

  “And you”—­he glanced to a nearby table where an older couple were eating fish and chips—­“would’ve done better to order Iain’s lamb shank.” When he turned back to her, he looked her over, letting his gaze skim her breasts. “The flesh is tender and succulent—­”

  “Kendra, lass!” Graeme MacGrath’s deep voice filled the room, the outside door banging shut as he approached the table with long, purposeful strides. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you haven’t been troubled.”

  “Graeme…” Kendra blinked, never more glad to see anyone in her life. He was almost at her side, his dog trotting right beside him.

  Anyone who saw the look on his face had to think he was madly in love with her.

  And that if he could tear his gaze off her long enough to do so, he’d knock Ramsay flat for daring to have glanced her way. Sitting at her table, speaking to her, and buying her a dram might well prove fatal.

  That was the air he had about him.

  Kendra’s heart raced, her pulse leaping to see his dark eyes blazing with such intensity.

  Apparently noticing, Gavin Ramsay stood. “I didn’t know you knew our seal man.” He spoke to Kendra, but his gaze was on Graeme, his blue eyes hard now. His smiles and innuendoes vanished.

  “She’s here to visit me.” Graeme didn’t even glance at Ramsay.

  Instead, he shouldered past him and looked down at Kendra, his mouth set in a tight, determined line. His eyes narrowed into the expression a man might wear before jumping into an abyss.

  “Come here, you.” He circled an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him in a swift, bone-­crushing hug that took her breath.

  Pressed against him, Kendra felt delicious heat sweep her even before he lowered his head to nuzzle the sensitive spot beneath her ear. His hair, still ponytailed, swung forward to brush her neck, unleashing swirls of pleasurable tingles throughout her. “Graeme—­”

  “Shhh…” He nipped her neck, his beard stubble grazing her skin. His scent flooded her senses, melting her with its sexy blend of woodsmoke and the sea. The wool of his sweater caressed her cheek, the rough weave cold from the night’s chill. “I’m sorry, lass…”