Haunted Warrior (28 page)

Her cover was about to be blown.

There was no way around it, even though she couldn’t imagine where to begin. Wherever she started, the end result would be the same.

Graeme would distance himself from her.

It was one thing to talk about tradition, myth, and legend. Tall tales, selkies, and whatever else crossed Scots’ minds in the cold of their long, dark winter nights. But to have someone say that they lived such things sent most people running for the hills.

And if Graeme looked at her as if she had the proverbial cup missing from her cupboard, she didn’t think she could bear it. No, she knew she couldn’t.

She also couldn’t ignore Jock MacAllister’s plea.

And by making it, he’d unwittingly freed her from her job’s strictures of silence. Graeme was now part and parcel of her duties here.

Damn.

Kendra’s aura shone like the sun, and Graeme was glad that Ritchie Watt didn’t seem to notice. Rays of purest white fanned out from her, lightening the grass, spilling across stone, and illuminating even the darkest corners and crannies of the ruins of Castle Grath. It was as if the sun had come down from the heavens, dropping right into the middle of his old home.

Graeme frowned, unable to stop glancing at her.

If her light grew any brighter, he’d need sunglasses.

Ritchie was almost at the far end of the wall. He still crept stealthily, unaware he’d been spotted.

Graeme shot a last look at Kendra, relieved to see she’d turned her back to him and appeared to be gazing out beyond the cliffs to the sea. It was likely the splendid view of sea and sky—­admittedly breathtaking—­that caused her aura to glow so beautifully.

She’d said she loved wild places.

And he loved preserving them.

Ready to do just that, he turned away from her and rolled his shoulders. Then he stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. He also pulled the leather tie from his ponytail, letting his hair swing loose about his shoulders. Long hair, whipped by a strong sea wind, gave a warrior a distinct edge.

It also brought out a man’s fierceness.

A slow smile spread across his face, cold and deadly.

His fingers began to itch, his hands craving the feel of his leather-­wrapped sword hilt against his palm. For now, he took his dirk from beneath his belt, testing its edge with the pad of his thumb.

When a bead of red appeared, his smile deepened.

But it still didn’t reach his eyes.

He knew they were hard and narrowed, as he watched Ritchie prepare to sprint from the end of the wall across the grass to where the moor path wound along the cliffs and then back down into the village.

It was a trek Ritchie wouldn’t be making.

In a whirl of speed, Graeme put himself in the youth’s path, his dirk deliberately turned so the blade caught the sun and gleamed wickedly. He needed even less time to grab Ritchie by the front of his jacket and hoist the lad a few feet off the ground.

“Was a bent knife not a good enough warning for you?” Graeme tightened his grip, letting the boy’s legs dangle in the air.

“You ken what I mean to do with you now?” Graeme released him then, taking no satisfaction when the youth dropped to his knees, anger and resentment all over him, soiling the cold morning air. “Twist off your knackers is what you deserve. Wouldn’t you say?”

Ritchie’s eyes sparked with defiance. His barely
fuzzed chin jutted, his hands splayed on the grass as he struggled for balance.

He didn’t say a word.

“Get up.” Graeme made a flicking motion with his dirk. “I’ll not be cutting you. Not unless you give me damned good reason. I want answers from you, not your life on my conscience.”

Still looking sullen, Ritchie scrambled to his feet. “I don’t have anything to say to you.” He brushed at the front of his jacket, righted the sleeves. “Not one word, whatever you do to me.”

“So brave, what?” Graeme leaned in, set the tip of his dirk beneath the youth’s chin. “And such a fine display of loyalty to our dark-­souled friend Gavin Ramsay. Is he here somewhere, hiding in the old doocot or yonder perhaps, behind one of the headstones?”

Ritchie clamped his mouth tightly. Until Graeme pressed the dirk tip deeper against the soft flesh beneath his chin. “I wouldn’t know where he is.”

“But you’re talking now.” Graeme lowered the dirk, his point made.

“I didn’t tell you anything. There’s a difference.”

“So there is.”

Graeme leaned back against the wall, taking his time to cross his legs at the ankles and casually fold his arms. Watt wasn’t going anywhere, though the youth hadn’t yet discovered his trap.

All Graeme had to do was wait.

Lads like Ritchie fled better than they did anything else. And when this particular misspent youth tried to run, he’d suffer a rude awakening.

Knowing the lad needed a lesson, Graeme angled his dirk so the blade once again shone in the cold morning sun. “You know Ramsay can’t win against me.” He kept
his gaze on the dirk, his will letting the blade lengthen, its magic-­hewn steel beginning to glow blue. “It’s as pointless as a gnat thinking he can pester an ox to death.”

“You don’t scare me, seal man.” Ritchie put back his shoulders. “Gavin will—­”

“He isn’t long for this world.” Graeme shot a glance a Kendra, relieved she still had her back to him. He was happier to see the swirls of blowing mist drifting between them, a veil of haze and shadow called forth by whatever powers gave him his magic.

If she noticed, she’d be enchanted by the luminously soft Highland mist, so prized by visiting Americans. She wouldn’t doubt him when he told her such mists rose out of nowhere all along Scotland’s coasts, whirling and shifting, cloaking the cliffs and shoreline. She’d also believe that the mist, also called sea haar, often dissipated as swiftly as it’d appeared. That was true, after all.

This mist was different.

As if he knew, Ritchie Watt shifted uncomfortably. “You can’t touch Gavin. He—­”

“He sealed his fate when he pushed that rock off the cliff.” Graeme lifted the glittering length of his sword, arcing it through the mist spinning around them. “He’s a dead man. Be warned.”

“Nae, that’s you.” Ritchie stood his ground, proving himself more brave than Graeme would’ve thought. “Gavin didn’t touch the rock. He made it move. He wasn’t anywhere near here, that’s how powerful he is.”

“Say you?” Graeme hoped his surprise didn’t show.

It was bad news if Ramsay’s skills had strengthened to such a degree.

“He can do more than will rocks to jump off cliffs.” Ritchie’s chest swelled on the boast. “He’s teaching me—­”

“What?” Graeme moved with lightning speed, placing his sword tip against the youth’s belly. Ritchie jumped back only to hit the barrier Graeme had cast around them. “See?” Graeme stepped closer, prodding him again with the sword. “All you’ll learn from Ramsay is how to ruin your life and make an arse out of yourself. He could’ve warned you there’d be no running from me.

“Bone Slicer hasn’t tasted blood in centuries.” Graeme flicked his wrist, letting the sword cut the leather of Ritchie’s jacket. “She’ll be thirsting for a good, long drink. Wouldn’t you say?

“Your master knows that.” Graeme whipped the sword tip again, making a twin gash on the other side of the jacket. “Too bad he didn’t tell you.”

“You were supposed to be dead.” Ritchie glared at him.

“And you? What was your place in this?” Graeme already had a good idea.

“Lookout.” Ritchie stood a bit taller, his voice full of pride. “He chose me to watch from the cliff and report back to him.”

Graeme couldn’t believe the lad’s stupidity.

But he lowered Bone Slicer, thrusting it back beneath his belt when the blade once again became an ordinary-­looking Scottish dirk.

“The barrier’s still there,” he warned when Ritchie turned to flee.

He also shot out an arm, gripping the youth’s elbow. “I’ll take it down when I’m done with you. You can leave then, but you’ll not be going back to Pennard.”

“The hell I won’t be.” Ritchie tried to jerk free.

“Hell is where you’ll land if you don’t take the chance I’m giving you.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“Nae, you dinnae. And I’m no’ obliged to help you.
But I like Roan Wylie and think he needs a better shot at keeping the Mermaid.”

“What’s a two-­bit tavern to do with me?” Ritchie sounded bitter, splotches of angry red inching up his neck. “I like drinking there, nothing else.”

“You’ll soon be doing more there than knocking down free pints and helping yourself to Roan’s cooking.” Graeme lifted a hand, glanced briefly at his palm, and then reached to touch the youth’s jacket.

The two cuts vanished.

Ritchie eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing, seal man?”

Graeme took a moment to answer. “Something I should’ve done a long while ago. Too bad the idea only now came to me. You, lad”—­he dug in his own jacket pocket, pulling out a wad of pound notes and thrusting them into Ritchie’s hand—­“will be hieing yourself across Scotland, down to a place I know near Oban.”

“Oban?”
Ritchie looked at him as if he’d said
the moon
.

“Aye, so I said.” Graeme spoke with determination, the thick mist around them beginning to thin. “Oban, gateway to the Western Isles. It’s fine country, full of hills, glens, and good, clean air.”

“I know where Oban is.” Ritchie’s tone was surly. “I’m not going there.”

“You’ll do more than that,” Graeme corrected, not bothered by the lad’s resistance. “More specifically, you’ll present yourself to my friend, Sir Alexander Douglas, at Ravenscraig Castle, where he’ll employ you any way it serves him. I’ll let him know to expect you. Ravenscraig”—­he held up a hand when Ritchie started to protest—­“is a hotel now, and so popular that good help is always welcome.

“They have a re-­created Highland village, One Cairn
Village, with cottages and shops. Their Victorian Lodge Coach House is always full, as is their genealogy center. So there’s no shortage of work. Alex might also engage you for their frequent medieval reenactment events, though”—­Graeme looked the slight, spike-­haired youth up and down—­“perhaps that wouldn’t work out very well.”

“None of it will.” Ritchie bristled. “I’m not going down there.”

“You will, and you’ll stay for a year or however long it takes for Alex to make something of you.” Graeme spoke bluntly now. “He’ll know when to send you back. And then you’ll work another year, for room and board only, at the Mermaid. Your wages earned will repay Roan for all the free food and ale he’s been giving you.”

“You’re a madman, MacGrath.” Ritchie straightened his shoulders, sadly only looking younger and vulnerable instead of streetwise, as he’d surely intended. “I already have work. I’m Gavin’s right-­hand man. He used me tonight to come here and watch his stone magic and let him know if—­”

“He used you, aye.” Graeme resisted the urge to grab the youth and shake him. “And I’m telling you that if he has the mind power to send a boulder sailing off a cliff, he also has the means to watch what happens from afar. He didn’t send you here to spy on my hoped-­for death. He will have known his rock wouldn’t hurt me.”

Ritchie thinned his lips, saying nothing.

“I see you understand.” Graeme glanced again at the whirling mist, noting it was little more than a few thin threads now.

When he looked again at Ritchie, he saw he’d assumed too much.

The lad still didn’t grasp his meaning.

For that matter, Graeme himself was only guessing
Ramsay’s motives. But his instinct told him he was right. And he always relied on his gut feelings.

“Ramsay sent you here to die.” Graeme didn’t cushion the words. “He knew I’d come up here and he also knew I’d find you. His mistake was to think I’d fall into such a blind rage that I’d kill you. He’ll have hoped I would, and then the police would’ve taken me away, eliminating me in a way he never could do on his own.

“In other words”—­Graeme watched comprehension dawn on Ritchie’s face—­“Ramsay set you up to be sacrificed.”

The youth shook his head, still disbelieving. “He’d never do that.”

“You know he would. He lives by being deceitful and manipulative. That’s his greatest magic, strengthened by greed and arrogance.”

“You’re the one thinking you’re something better.” Ritchie’s eyes glittered, his fists balling at his sides.

“I abhor evil, aye. And those who’d corrupt young fools like you, pulling you into the muck with them.”

Graeme saw the first hint of doubt cross Ritchie’s face. It was brief, a flickering only, gone in a flash. But it gave Graeme the encouragement to lower the impassable barrier he’d raised around them.

A flush stained Ritchie’s face. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

Graeme shrugged. “You should’ve thought of that before you became involved with Ramsay. All you can do now is use that money”—­Graeme glanced at the crumpled notes still clutched in the lad’s hand—­“and get yourself down to Oban. You’ll be safe there. Alex won’t let Ramsay or his goons come anywhere near Ravenscraig.”

Ritchie still glowered. “And if I don’t go?”

“Then you’ll meet Bone Slicer in a very different way than you did today.” Graeme gripped his dirk, easing it
up from beneath his belt just enough for the blade to start glowing blue again.

Ritchie stared, backing away. “You wouldn’t…”

The lad was right.

But Graeme leaned forward and met Ritchie’s gaze with deadly earnest. “You have two choices. Oban and my friend, Alex, or never knowing when you’ll wake in the night to find me standing beside your bed, ready to run you through. Pennard is too small for Ramsay and the vermin who flock to him. I think you’re still salvageable. Choose wisely.”

And Ritchie did, cramming the pound notes into his pocket and racing off along the cliff path, running in the opposite direction of Pennard.

Graeme waited until he disappeared behind a dip in the path before he shoved a hand through his hair and started back to Kendra.

The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to her how Ramsay managed to send the rock hurtling over the cliff. Too bad he had a feeling he’d have no choice but to tell her truth.