Haunted Warrior

by Allie Mackay

  Kendra stood perfectly still, her heart knocking against her ribs.

  He was scrutinizing her, she knew. Perhaps he was trying to seduce her with a stare. He had the looks and sex appeal to tempt any woman, if that was his plan. Before she could decide how to react to him, the wind picked up, the chill gusts buffeting her roughly and whipping her hair across her eyes.

  “Agh.” She swiped the strands from her face, blinking against the sting of windblown sand.

  When the wind settled and her vision cleared, the man was gone.

  The high dunes were empty.

  And—­somehow this didn’t surprise her—­the afternoon’s odd clarity also had vanished.

  Sure, the strand still stretched as endless as before, the red-­gold sand almost garnet-­colored where the surf rushed in, dampening the beach. The sea looked as angry as ever, the tossing gray waves white-­crested and huge. Their roar filled the air, loud and thunderous. And the western sky still blazed scarlet, as vivid as before. But the sense of seeing through cut glass had faded.

  “Good grief.” Kendra shivered. Setting a hand to her brow, she scanned the long line of grass-­covered dunes. Then she turned in a circle, eyeing the strand. The beach was just as deserted as it’d been since she’d started her walk. Nothing broke the emptiness except the scattered World War II bunkers half buried in the sand up ahead of her. Built, she’d heard, so men could watch for German U-­boats. Now they were part of the strand’s attraction.

  A little bit of history, there for those interested.

  The bunkers were also a reason she’d shielded herself before setting foot on the strand. Ever cautious, she’d taken a deep breath and tapped into the protective energy that dwelt at the center of everyone’s soul. Thanks to her inherited sensitivity and her work experience, she knew how to summon such power. White light and a firm word declaring her wish for privacy usually kept spirits at bay. If any long-­dead soldiers felt a need to hover around their old guard post, she didn’t want to attract them. She was off duty, after all.

  And it was clear that the kiltie from the dune had taken off, as well.

  He was nowhere to be seen.

  He must’ve headed away from the strand, disappearing across the wide marshland behind the dunes. There’d be a road out there somewhere, a place where he could’ve parked a car. Or maybe he’d gone to a nearby farmhouse where he just happened to live. Something like that could be the only explanation. He definitely hadn’t been a ghost.

  Sure of it, Kendra pushed him from her mind and made for the bunkers. She’d eat her packed lunch there—­late, but necessary sustenance—­and then head back the way she’d come. Until then, a brief rest would do her good.

  She did enjoy solitude.

  And the bunkers looked like an ideal spot to be alone.

  But as she neared the first one, she saw that someone else had the same idea. A tall, ponytailed man leaned against the bunker’s thick gray wall. Dressed in faded jeans and a black leather jacket, he could’ve been a tourist. But Kendra sensed that he was local. Arms folded and ankles crossed, he also looked very comfortable, like he wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon.

  Kendra’s heart sank.

  She’d so wanted just one day of peace. Her only wish had been a walk along an empty strand, soaking in the tranquillity and recovering from weeks of grueling work counseling ghosts at the sites of lost medieval villages in England.

  Her energy was drained. The prospect of quietude had beckoned like a beacon.

  Now even a beach reputed to be among Britain’s wildest and least disturbed proved crowded. The man at the bunker might not be a throng, but he had enough presence to fill a football field.

  Kendra bit her lip, wondering if she could slip past him unnoticed and walk on to the other bunkers farther down the strand. Before she could make her move, he pushed away from the wall and turned toward her. As he did, she felt the blood drain from her face.

  He was the man from the dunes.

  And he was coming right up to her, his strides long and easy, his dark gaze locked on hers.

  “This is no place for a woman to walk alone.” His voice held all the deep richness of Scotland, proving she’d tipped right that he was local. “Sandstorms have buried these bunkers within a few hours of blowing wind. The seas here are aye heavy, the surf rough and—­”

  “Who are you?” Kendra frowned, not missing that his dark good looks were even more stunning up close. It didn’t matter that he now wore his hair pulled back with a leather tie. The blue-­black strands still shone with the same gleam that had caught her eye earlier. “Didn’t I just see you on the dunes? Back there”—­she glanced over her shoulder at the long line of dunes running the length of the strand—­“no more than ten minutes ago?”

  “I’m often on the dunes.” A corner of his mouth lifted as he avoided her question. “And you’re an American.” His sexy Scottish burr deepened, as if he knew the rich, buttery tones would make her pulse leap. “A tourist come to visit bonnie Scotland, what?”

  “Yes.” Kendra’s chin came up. Hunky or not, he didn’t need to know her business here.

  No one did.

  She was interested in his business. Only Superman could change clothes so quickly.

  “Weren’t you in a kilt just a while ago?” She kept her chin raised, making sure he saw that she wasn’t afraid and wouldn’t back down.

  “A kilt?” His smile spread, a dimple flashing in his cheek. Then he held out his leather-­clad arms, glanced down at his jeans. “I do have one, aye. But as you see, I’m no’ wearing it now.”

  Kendra saw how he was dressed. She also noted that his jacket hugged his shoulders, emphasizing their width. How his shirt made no secret that his chest was rock hard and muscled. Her gaze slipped lower—­she couldn’t help it—­and then even the tips of her ears heated. Because, of course, his well-­fitting jeans revealed that a certain manly part of him was also superbly endowed.

  She took a deep breath, hoping he hadn’t seen that she’d noticed.

  “You did have one on.” If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was trying to spell her. Use his hot good looks to fuzz her mind. “A kilt, I mean.”

  “You’re mistaken, lass.” He lowered his arms, fixing her with the same intent gaze as he’d done from the dunes. “I’ve been here at the bunkers awhile, listening to the wind and keeping my peace.”

  Kendra felt her brow knit. “I know I saw you.”

  He stepped closer, his smile gone. “You could’ve seen anyone. And that’s why I’ll tell you again, this is no fine place for a woman alone. Youths from the city come here this time of the evening.” He flicked a glance at the bunker’s narrow, eerily black window slits. “They dare each other to crawl inside and stay there till the moon rises. Such lads drink their courage. They turn bold and reckless. If a bonnie lassie then happened along—­”

  “I’m not a lassie.” Kendra wished he wasn’t standing so close. His broad shoulders blocked out the strand and the bunker, narrowing her world to him. His scent was fatal. Heady and addictive, it invaded her senses, filling her mind with images that weren’t good for her.

  There was something terribly intoxicating about the blend of leather, brisk, cold air, and man.

  Any moment she was going to blush like a flame.

  She could feel the heat gearing up to burst onto her cheeks. A problem that escalated each time her gaze lit on his hands. They were large, long-­fingered, and beautifully made. She couldn’t help but wonder how they’d feel gliding over her naked skin.

  She wasn’t about to look at his mouth. One glance at his wickedly sensuous lips had been enough. It’d been so long since she’d been properly kissed.

  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 nea
rness 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.

  Chapter 1

  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 remembered 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.