Haunted Warrior (22 page)

In more recent years, the good fisher folk of Pennard also fretted about tourists. Since the success of the cult film
The Herring Fisher
, they arrived each summer with the regularity of herring shoals. They’d crowd the tiny village as they went about snapping pictures, paying for boat trips, booking rooms at the inn, and filling the salt air with their twangy American accents.

Pennard needed them.

Too bad their affection for the little fishing village also brought its doom. Scotland’s Past wouldn’t have glanced at Pennard if they didn’t see its popularity as a milkable cash cow.

Graeme frowned, his jaw setting so tight he wondered he didn’t crack a tooth.

He also didn’t care to discuss Dod’s passing. He’d liked the man. Just as he’d got on well with Dod’s parents and grandparents and their parents before them. That they were no longer here reminded him of how fragile such relationships are. How unwise he’d been to bring Kendra to a place with the power to strip his defenses.

Yet there was no turning back now.

A large, curving tumble of rocks under the cliffs marked the deep, steep-­sided cove that was the seals’ haul-­out site. On such a fine day, they’d be all over the stony little beach. Graeme just hoped Kendra wouldn’t notice the inlet’s other notable attraction.

Not many people would.

And he was so smitten with her—­and eager to spend the day in her company—­that he’d overlooked what she’d told him about her occupation.

As a landscape historian, she might well spot the hand-­cut shape of some of the broken rocks piled at one
end of the tiny cove. Or notice that the unobtrusive half arch set high into the bluff on that side of the beach wasn’t a natural part of the cliff, but the remains of a gatehouse that once guarded Graeme’s home.

She already knew Castle Grath loomed above them.

With luck, she wouldn’t realize how easily they could reach the ruins.

If one was willing to climb and didn’t suffer a fear of heights. As long as one kept a good toehold on the right rocks and possessed a secure and firm hand grip, it was possible. A willingness to get wet and dirty didn’t hurt, either. Kendra’s profession indicated she’d scramble up the broken, weather-­worn steps with enthusiasm.

So Graeme had only one hope.

That she’d find the seals so enchanting, she wouldn’t see anything else.

Not too far from Graeme’s
Sea Wyfe
, but at a carefully calculated distance behind the shoulder of the crags, a smaller boat bobbed and pitched in the strong-­running swell. Dark blue in color and bearing the stenciled name
Fenris
in white letters on her bow and again across her stern, the boat was outfitted with a powerful engine. Her speed and stealth made up for her lack in size.

Such things mattered to the man at the tiller.

The boat was called after the Viking god Fenris the wolf, believed to be the son of Loki the trickster. Like his better-­known father, Fenris the wolf boasted a reputation as a troublemaker in Asgard, the Norse heaven. The
Fenris
served a similar purpose: stirring mayhem.

Sometimes worse.

If someone needed to find themselves wedged between limpet-­crusted rocks beneath a little-­visited, inaccessible cliff, their naked body battered by the tide,
Fenris
the boat escorted them there.

Whenever such dark deeds were necessary, Gavin Ramsay knew the fast little boat would do him well. The hurling seas did the rest, always dependable. As were the lobsters and seabirds, ever ready to disperse of what remained after a good slamming and crashing by the waves.

Gavin scarce needed to exert himself. And that was as well, because he was a vain man. He much preferred using his darker talents to dirtying his hands and risking scars if a foe put up a struggle.

He also enjoyed the stunned realization on their faces when they grasped that they couldn’t escape their fate. He reveled in their shock and horror.

This morn was such a time.

MacGrath, the seal-­loving bastard, had played right into his hands. It scarce mattered if the American was his long-­lost girlfriend or not. And Gavin had his doubts that she was. No man, not even MacGrath, would let a woman he loved stray far from his arms.

And if that man knew—­as he was sure MacGrath did—­that she possessed strong psychic powers, her energy field almost blinding to those able to see such things, such a man would deserve to lose her.

Yet MacGrath, who regrettably wielded his own brand of magic, didn’t seem troubled enough to keep her secure at his own cottage.

He let her sleep at the Laughing Gull.

And that told Gavin all he needed to know.

Their bond, whatever it was, could be broken. And once he had the chit in his own arms, she’d forget the seal man. Gavin shoved back his hair, dashing water from his face when the
Fenris
took a bow full of spray. Ever a man to embrace danger, he didn’t mind the rough seas.

Soon he’d enjoy a very different challenge.

A shapely, easily besotted one he meant to have naked
in his bed and writhing beneath him before this day’s sun sank behind the hills.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he felt a most enjoyable twitching at his loins, as well. An insistent stirring he looked forward to indulging later this evening. He knew how to pleasure women.

American women were especially easy to please.

They melted at a flash of plaid, a hot-­eyed wink and a smile, or a wee hint that one was descended from Robert the Bruce.

Gavin’s lips twitched again at the thought of
his
forebears.

Not quite in the Bruce’s league, they were far more powerful in their own right.

Even so, he’d stick with his charm and Scottish accent to seduce the American.

Graeme MacGrath wasn’t the only Scot able to turn on a burr. Nor—­Gavin ran his fingers through his hair again—­was the seal man as good-­looking as he was. Kendra Chase wouldn’t be able to resist him.

And if his other skills were as sharp as he believed, she’d soon welcome his attentions. At the very least, she’d need comforting.

After that…

Gavin braced himself as the
Fenris
plunged into another steep trough, dousing him anew. He didn’t care about getting wet, only even.

Destroying MacGrath was his plan.

Once he’d accomplished that, everything else would fall into place.

“You’d best hold tight now.” Graeme’s tone made Kendra’s senses sharpen. “The currents are tricky here and it’ll be a bit rough before we’re around the rocks and into the shelter of the cove.”

“I can tell.” Kendra did as he suggested, gripping the side of the boat with one hand and using her other to hold on to the seat.

A bit rough
was an understatement.

Submerged rocks fringed the cove’s narrow opening and the sea churned there, the waves breaking up and swirling in all directions after crashing into the jagged skerries. Kendra looked about in excitement, her blood pumping as the
Sea Wyfe
pitched and tossed. She didn’t doubt the boat’s sea worthiness, or Graeme’s skill at handling her.

She could feel the air around them come alive.

This was more than a popular gathering spot for seals. Grath Point held a vital pulse she could almost hear humming inside the sheer rock cliffs. The place possessed an intense power. Everything was sharply defined, clear, and vibrant. The sea, wind, and sky struck her as almost crystalline.

It could’ve been a dream landscape.

The quality was similar.

She flashed a glance at Graeme. Surreal vista or not, she wasn’t going to think about dreams right now. Not after the one she’d had of Graeme in her room the night before. Just remembering sent a sensual warmth rushing through her entire body, even now.

And it’d only been a dream.

Yet…

The sensations it had stirred in her were as real as if he had actually been in her room.

In an attempt to distract herself, she thought back to the spectral herring fleet. She would swear she’d also seen the ghostly ships out near the horizon only a short while ago. Their sails had caught her eye, flashing white in the morning sun. But then she’d squinted while Graeme had been talking to her about the huge seas, and
when she looked again, that was just what she saw: long, white-­crested rollers moving slowly toward the shore.

Nothing else stirred except the spray hissing down the sides of Graeme’s
Sea Wyfe
and the seabirds circling above the boat.

Even so, she’d allowed herself a moment to summon a protective shield of white-­light energy, letting its power surround her, cleansing and blessing a sacred circle of space around her.

Psychic self-­defense, once learned and practiced, was as simple as brushing teeth.

It didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to let ghosts approach her. They still could if they desired. Her talent was an inherited gift, passed down through the women in her family. No one knew when it began or who’d be the last so blessed. What did stand out was that it jumped generations indiscriminately, following no given pattern. For whatever reason it occurred, it was a legacy meant to be used and accessed. So she kept herself open to discarnate visits, encouraging and welcoming such encounters.

She was just selective.

Ghosts didn’t lose their personalities simply because they’d moved on to dwell on another plane. Zack had a favorite caution: once an ax murderer, always an ax murderer.

There were also braggarts, liars, and connivers in the spirit world.

She’d also encountered more than one lothario. Ethereal men who’d been more than willing to leave the place—­and the earthly women—­they’d been haunting, only to reappear in Kendra’s apartment on her return home, usually surprising her in her bedroom or bathroom.

Some ghosts were just plain mean.

It paid to be prudent.

But she was curious about the fleet. Hopefully she’d soon know what they wanted from her. She’d also love to see the phone-­box ghost again, now certain that the big, gruff-­faced fisherman was none other than Janet Murray’s late husband. She was always careful not to press discarnates to speak to her, but she did have ideas when it was necessary to make a connection easier for them.

Something told her Dod Murray needed such a nudge.

Dod was a troubled soul, reliving his passing each time he left the call box and ventured into Harbour Street.

At least that was her interpretation.

“Have you no’ seen them yet?” Graeme’s voice startled her.

“Them?” Kendra’s eyes flashed open. Her pulse leapt as she whipped around, for a moment thinking he’d guessed her secret: that she was one of the rare people able to see and speak with ghosts.

“The seals.” He gave her a smile that made her forget all about spirits. “We’re here. This is where I come to watch and record their behavior.”

“I don’t see any.” She didn’t. She saw only rocks and surging water, the glitter of flying spray.

“You will in a beat.” He sounded amused. “They’re aye glad for company. Like pet dogs they are, I say you.”

“I’ve heard that.” She glanced at him again, and his dimple flashed when he looked at her. She wished he didn’t have one. It only added to his appeal. Worse, his burr was working its usual magic, his soft, lilting words making her heart beat faster.

His looks didn’t help.

His sleek black hair whipped about his face, and although
it was still morning, a sexy trace of beard stubble already shadowed his chin. His dark eyes seemed to look deep inside her, peering into her soul….

She tore her gaze away, not wanting to go down that road.

She
was
going ashore with him.

While she’d been thinking about Dod Murray, Graeme had slowed the boat to a putter. They were only a few feet from the dark bulk of Grath Point. And dead ahead, a curving sweep of jumbled rock formed a sheltered, deep-­sided cove.

They’d arrived.

Kendra felt instinctively that she’d know Graeme much better when they left.

Sure of it, she blew out a long breath. There was only one problem with getting closer to him: he’d also learn more about her.

And that’s what she was supposed to avoid.

What a pity having to say good-­bye to him felt like the greater hardship.

“My seals”—­Graeme’s voice held pride and affection—­“they’re there. You can see them through the opening in the rocks.” He was pointing ahead, with a broad smile splitting his face.

Kendra followed his gaze, the arm he held outstretched to help her know where to look.

“Oh, my. You’re right!” Kendra shaded her eyes, her worries of the moment before fading at the sight in front of her.

Morning sun glittered on the water. And beyond the secret inlet’s narrow entrance, a crescent of stony beach beckoned at the cove’s rear. Kendra leaned forward, squinting to see across the bright-­glinting waves to the rock-­strewn beach. Seals were there, more than she could count. The strand sloped gently and it was clear that Graeme meant to run the
Sea Wyfe
up onto the shingle.

As if the seals recognized him and knew, they made room, wriggling aside or sliding down into the surf so that a landing place opened for the boat.

Kendra’s breath caught watching them. “They know you.”

“They should.” Graeme’s dimple winked again. “We’ve been friends for many long years.”

Something in his tone made her skin prickle. But when she glanced at him, she couldn’t see any reason for the ripple of chills.

He’d turned his attention on the seal-­free strip of shoreline looming so close now, and she couldn’t help but notice the flex of his arm muscles as he ran the boat deeper into the cove. Wind blew his hair about his neck and shoulders, making him look like a pagan Celtic prince or a dashing medieval warlord.

She could go for either.

Mostly she just wanted him.

She ached for him, her whole body needing and desiring him in ways she’d never wanted any other man. She felt a powerful attraction to him. She wanted him to kiss her, long and deep, and not because someone was watching and he wanted to give credence to their sham relationship. It wasn’t just his sexy Scottish accent and dark good looks that attracted her.