Haunted Warrior (3 page)

This man would kiss like the devil, she knew.

And no man had ever affected her so fast, or with a mere glance.

He towered over her, his big, powerful body inches from hers. She could feel his warm breath on her face, teasing and tempting her. His nearness made her tingle. And his rich Scottish accent was melting her, wiping out every ounce of her good sense.

She never mixed work and pleasure. Early tomorrow morning she’d embark on one of the most important assignments of her Ghostcatcher career. She’d require all her skill and sensitivity to settle the disgruntled spirits of a soon-­to-­be-­refurbished fishing village.

Souls needed her.

And she needed her wits. A good night’s sleep, spent alone and without complications.

“So, you’re no’ a lassie, eh?” The Scotsman gave her a look that made her entire body heat.

“I’m an American.” The excuse sounded ridiculous. “We don’t have lassies.”

“Then beautiful women.” He touched her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Kendra’s pulse beat harder. Tiny shivers spilled through her, delicious and unsettling. “There are lots of gorgeous women in the States. Smart women who—­”

“I meant you.” He stepped back, his withdrawal chilling the air. “Those other women aren’t here and dinnae matter. For whatever reason, you’ve found your way to Balmedie. It’d be a shame if aught happened to you here on your holiday.”

“I can take care of myself.” She could still feel the warmth of his touch. The side of her face tingled, recalling his caress. “I’m not afraid of youths and their pranks.” She couldn’t believe her voice was so calm. “As you said, I’m American. Our big cities have places I’d bet even you wouldn’t go.”

“Rowdy lads aren’t the only dangers hereabouts.” He glanced at the sea and then the dunes. Already higher
than any dunes she’d ever seen, they now also looked menacing. Deep shadows were beginning to creep down their red-­sanded slopes, and the wind-­tossed marram grass on their crests rustled almost ominously.

“There are ruins here and there.” He turned back to her, holding her gaze. “Shells of ancient castles set about the marshlands beyond the dunes. Many locals believe some of those tumbled walls hold more than rubble and weeds. Ghosts are said to walk there and no’ all of them are benign.”

Kendra bit back a smile. “Ghosts don’t scare me.”

Ghosts were her business.

And the discontented ones were, after all, her specialty.

“Then perhaps you haven’t yet met a Scottish ghost?” The man’s voice was low and deep, perfectly earnest. “They can be daunting. You wouldn’t want to happen across one on a night of cold mist and rain, certainly not here at Balmedie in such dark weather.”

“It isn’t raining.” Kendra felt the first icy drop as soon as the words left her mouth.

“If you hurry, you’ll make it back to wherever you’re staying before the storm breaks.” His glance went past her, back toward the Donmouth estuary where she’d entered the strand. “I’d offer to drive you, but my car is probably farther away than your hotel.”

“I don’t need a ride.” She wasn’t about to get in a car with him, even if he had one close.

He was dangerous.

And he was also right about the weather. Looking round to follow his gaze, Kendra saw the thick, black clouds rolling in from the west. Dark, scudding mist already blew along the tops of the dunes, and the air was suddenly much colder. Even in the short space of her backward glance, rain began hissing down on the sand and water.

She’d be drenched in minutes.

And that was all the encouragement she needed to leave the beach. Ghosts didn’t bother her at all. But the last thing she wanted was to catch a cold. So she pulled up her jacket hood and then turned around to bid the too-­sexy-­for-­his-­own-­good Scotsman adieu.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t.

He was gone.

“Hey! That’s not funny.” She went to the bunker, scrambling over fallen chunks of masonry to peer into the long, vertical slit of its window. Blackness and a whiff of stale air greeted her.

Total, empty silence.

Wherever the man had gone, he wasn’t inside the bunker.

And—­Kendra’s jaw slipped as she looked up and down the strand—­he also hadn’t left any footprints. Not even where they’d stood just moments before.

“I’ll be damned.” Her astonishment was great.

Generally, only spirits could move without a visible trace. Yet she knew he wasn’t a ghost. She had seen enough to know the difference. He’d been real, solid, and definitely red-­blooded.

So what was he?

Burning to figure it out, Kendra clutched her jacket tighter and hurried down the strand. Scotland certainly was proving to be interesting.

And in ways she’d never expected.

Pennard, a Seaside Hamlet
Scotland’s Rugged North Coast
The next day…

“My time has come.” Kendra Chase gripped the steering wheel of her small rental car and knew her end would greet her swiftly if she dared take her foot off the brake. Nothing but empty space opened before her. Fog blurred the horizon, but here at the top of a great, rocky promontory, the mist was thin enough for her to spot several colorful fishing boats chugging in on the incoming tide. They were surely headed for Pennard’s little marina, a harbor said to be just across from her hotel, the Laughing Gull Inn.

Supposedly the only hotel in the village, it was also hailed as quaint and cozy. She’d been looking forward to a quiet night of cheery warmth before launching into her
work.

Now…

She puffed her bangs off her brow with a breath.

It was almost a given that she wouldn’t survive to spend her evening in the Laughing Gull’s renowned pub restaurant, enjoying North Sea ambience, a corner table with a harbor view, and a fine fish supper.

Even if her work constituted talking with ghosts, driving willy-­nilly over cliff edges wasn’t in her repertoire.

Driving on the left was madness enough.

Braving heavy city traffic in Aberdeen was a nightmare she wanted to forget. Finding her way out of those clogged and busy streets had used up much of her fortitude. The admittedly scenic drive along Scotland’s cliff-­riddled northern coast proved much less harrowing. In fact, the sweeping sea-­and-­landscape view had taken her breath away. But it’d still been a relief to finally spot the signpost for her destination, the tiny fishing village of Pennard.

A charming, picturesque place she might never see in person because, much to her horror, the long road leading out to Pennard ended at the edge of a sheer bluff. To be fair, the road didn’t exactly stop. It simply nipped over the edge of the bluff as if vanishing into thin air. The village wasn’t spread along the top of a headland as she’d imagined. She couldn’t see it at all, which meant Pennard hugged the base of the frightfully steep cliff.

And the only way to get there appeared to be the thread-­thin, perpendicular road that hairpinned straight down to the sea.

Something inside her tightened and clenched. Nerves prickled, and it wouldn’t have surprised her if her knees started trembling. If anyone could see her, she was sure they’d say she’d gone chalk white.

Somewhere a dog barked. And a strong gust of wind shook the car, the wind’s power making sure she re
membered hearing of hill walkers and even well-­pitched camping tents, complete with occupants, being swept off Scottish cliffs. Unfortunates whirled through the air and then hurtled into the sea, never to be seen again.

She shuddered just imagining it.

Another blast of wind rocked the car, this time rattling the windows. Headlines flashed across her mind:
AMERICAN WOMAN’S RENTAL CAR BLOWN OFF THE CLIFFS AT PENNARD, TOURIST AND VEHICLE SINKING BENEATH THE WAVES.

Her stomach knotted.

Much of the day had been rainy and chilly, leaving the road’s surface wet and slick. Her car was small, a light-­bodied economy model.

She had to get out of here.

Her heart rate went up. Her palms began to sweat. And the stress spot between her shoulders tensed and throbbed. But she wasn’t able to loosen her white-­knuckled hold on the steering wheel.

She did close her eyes and take a long, deep breath.

She was a strong, modern-­day woman.

Things that would send many grown men running
to their mothers didn’t faze her at all. Zachary Walk-
er, owner of Ghostcatchers International, frequently praised her cool head and unflinching nerves, often giving her assignments no one else would tackle. More than once, she’d faced down dark spirits who defined nastiness. Some had even followed her home on occasion, invading her personal space and bedeviling her with all kinds of annoyances. Yet she always banished them with the same ease she used to cut off pesky telephone solicitors.

But everyone had their limits.

Pennard appeared to be hers.

She couldn’t help but think that Scotland’s Past, the
historical restoration group responsible for her visit, might just have to hire a different spirit negotiator. According to Zack, the organization was presently starting a refurbishment project of the popular seaside hamlet, made famous when a low-­budget Scottish nostalgia film used the village as a setting. Aptly titled
The Herring Fisher
, the movie gained cultlike fame, putting Pennard on the tourist map.

The Herring Fisher
’s heyday was decades ago, but the village’s notoriety never faded. Hence the eagerness of Scotland’s Past to make Pennard into the crown jewel of their historic sites: an entire seaside fishing hamlet preserved as a living history museum.

The village would become a place where the days of yore could be observed and experienced, the old ways never dying, but upheld for prosperity.

Scotland’s Past had high hopes for Project Pennard.

Only problem was that all the comings and goings were causing the village spirits to stir. And, according to Zack, the discarnates weren’t happy about seeing the home they still loved turned into a tourist attraction.

But Pennard’s ghosts could be helped by one of Kendra’s colleagues.

There were others with her abilities.

Wrong-­sided driving on a suicidal goat track of a downward-­plunging road was beyond her capability.

And, regrettably, her special stress remedy of surrounding herself with calming white light wasn’t working just now. Either the spirit guides who usually helped her in uneasy times were on holiday, or—­and she suspected this was the reason—­her dread of driving left down a sheer rock face simply packed a greater punch.

“Oh, man…” Beads of moisture formed on her forehead. A similar nuisance droplet trickled between her breasts, quickly followed by another one.

And despite the afternoon’s chill, the inside of her rental car felt hotter and stickier than if she were driving without AC through the worst heat of a Florida summer. Any moment she would suffocate.

Going forward wasn’t an option.

Backing up…

It was a possibility. A glance in the rearview mirror showed no other car in sight. The road stretched narrow and straight, leading across empty moorland of heather and high grasses, the whole swathed by mist and scattered with groupings of boulders.

She needed only to avoid the verge. High grass hid the road’s edges, but after such a rainy morning, they’d surely be soft and squishy. This wasn’t a place to risk a wheel sinking into peat muck.

A shivery prickling at her nape warned that might happen.

She had to take the chance.

As carefully as she could, she began reversing. At first she let the car creep backward by the inch, then—­becoming more daring—­she covered a few feet, followed by a good couple yards. Turning would be too precarious. But unless another vehicle appeared, she’d eventually reach the main coastal road. She’d find the first place to pull over safely. Then, thanks to the five-­hour time difference in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and Ghostcatchers International headquarters, she’d call Zack, catching him at the beginning of his work day, before the office became too hectic.

Ghosts were popular these days.

And Ghostcatchers’ phone and e-­mail hopped with as many hopeful ghost-­catching wannabes as with people needing their services.

Kendra shouldn’t have allowed those reminders of work to enter her mind because…

She’d just felt the back left wheel dip and lurch as she edged along the verge. Thankfully, she righted the car before it tilted too badly. But the almost mishap made her anxious all over again.

The prickles at her nape also returned. And this time, ripples of awareness washed over her, the sensation familiar enough for her to slow to a crawl and scan the seemingly endless moorland that stretched away on both sides of the ribbon-­thin road.

As her aura glowed much brighter than most people’s, it was possible Pennard’s spirit residents sensed her approach and were coming to greet her. The like happened often enough, though she’d rather not meet anyone just now. Corporeal or incorporeal, it didn’t matter.

But the only thing stirring was wind in the heather. And, nearer the cliff edge, a handful of seabirds wheeled on the air currents. Beyond, the sea gleamed like beaten pewter, winking with choppy, white-­crested waves until rolling mist blotted the view.

The returning fishing boats must’ve already reached Pennard’s tiny harbor.

Not a soul—­quite literally—­was anywhere in sight.

But then a dog barked again. And this time he sounded close enough for her to hit the brakes sharply. Dread slammed into her, horror squeezing her chest.

She’d survive the shame of refusing an assignment.

But she’d never forgive herself if she hurt an animal, especially a dog.

Fortunately, she spotted the dog at once and he wasn’t anywhere near her rental car, though he was headed her way. A frisky border collie, he was bounding gleefully along a coastal path she hadn’t yet noticed because of the high grass and heather.

She did notice the tall, ponytailed man strolling oh, so casually behind the dog.

He was the sexy Scotsman from Balmedie Beach.

Shock raced through Kendra as she recognized him. Her body turned alternately hot and cold, her heart jolting as man and dog drew closer.