by Allie Mackay
What he should do was leave.
He had only to retrace the mental path he’d followed to get here.
If he did, he’d be back on his sofa in quick time. He’d be alone in the Keel, no longer in danger of doing something he’d regret. He’d be free to get the sleep he needed, his night’s rest serenaded by Jock’s fluting snores.
But he couldn’t make himself leave her.
Kendra’s scent filled the room and—his scowl deepened—whatever it was bewitched him. Clean, light, and perhaps lily of the valley, the fragrance teased his senses. It also held him here as soundly as if he’d cast one of his own powerful binding spells.
Surely there wasn’t anything wrong in relishing a few deep breaths of her soft, womanly scent?
Once more, and he’d leave on the exhale.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a pleasure. It’d been even longer since a woman had stirred him so greatly.
And that was why he needed to go.
But just when he started to close his senses to her scent in preparation for his return journey to the Keel, he made the grave error of letting his gaze fall on the blue plaid chair beside the window.
Kendra’s lingerie was on the chair.
He needed only one look at her lacy black panties and bra to run hard as granite.
“Damnation.” He growled the word, fisting his hands again as his entire body tightened.
On the bed, Kendra stirred, rolling onto her back so that her full, round breasts were fully exposed, their lushness adding to his misery.
He refused to look lower.
There were some things beyond a man’s endurance. And he had invaded her privacy enough for one night.
He did strike an immediate retreat, willing his conscious mind to drift back across the room, past her bed, and toward the waiting door.
Her eyes popped open and she sat up just as he was reaching for the doorknob.
“Graeme…” She looked right at him, impossible as it was.
He stared at her breasts, unable not to. “I’m no’ really here, lass. You’re only dreaming, seeing things that aren’t there.”
“I don’t think so.” She blinked and rubbed her eyes. The movement made her breasts sway, upping his torment.
“It’s true.” He willed her to believe.
Regret pierced him that he couldn’t go to her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her. Only this time he knew he could never stop at a kiss. He’d cup and squeeze her breasts, rolling her nipples beneath his thumbs, and then…
He couldn’t finish the thought.
Moonlight fell across the whole of her lush, feminine body, a benediction in light and shadow, all smooth, creamy skin and temptation.
Anger and frustration punched him like an iron fist in the chest.
Kendra settled back on her elbows, a slight frown now creasing her brow. Her lovely blue eyes looked heavy, the lids slowly lowering. His craft hadn’t failed him, despite his inner turmoil. She’d bought his mental suggestion and accepted him as a dream.
Already, her fair head was sinking onto the pillow, true sleep upon her.
“You’re an arse, MacGrath.” He cursed himself softly, his hand still on the doorknob.
Then, when he could stand the agony no longer, he did what he should have done immediately upon finding her safe and alone in her room.
He slipped out the door and sent himself back along the waterfront to his cottage.
He just hoped that when he took her out on the Sea Wyfe later that morning, he’d be able to look at her without thinking of her naked breasts.
Somehow he doubted it.
Chapter 9
Early the next morning, Kendra slipped from the Laughing Gull Inn as unobtrusively as possible. She closed the door with even greater caution, keenly aware of the clatter of pots and pans coming from the inn’s kitchen. Iain, and most likely Janet, as well, was clearly readying for the breakfast rush. The last thing she needed was for either of them to hear her and come asking why she was stepping outside at such an ungodly hour.
She could say she’d slept poorly and wanted a walk before breakfast.
That was even true.
She’d had the strangest dream. A vivid one in which Graeme had approached her bed, looking down at her with such desire, only to vanish into thin air even as his appreciative gaze moved along the length of her body. He’d been so real, her own longings had fluttered inside her, her heart beating wildly long after he’d gone.
She’d been unable to reclaim the dream.
But the impact of his devilish good looks had stayed with her, haunting her. Remembering the heat in his eyes, she could feel a flush spreading across her cheeks. How sure she’d been that she could’ve reached out and touched his arm, the rest of him. She’d wanted him, her body catching fire. She still burned for him now.
But she pushed him from her mind, summoning the focus her career required of her. Her assignment was the real reason she stood outside the inn, scanning the road and waterfront before more than a faint hint of gray edged the horizon. Pennard at this hour was dark, cold, and silent.
And she was about to go to work.
So she took a deep breath and lifted her head, closing her eyes as she drew on the powerful white-light energy that would shield her from any lesser energies she might encounter at the empty house she wished to explore. She opened her eyes only when the familiar, tingly warmth of her psychic defenses rose around her.
She never faced spirits, or other supernatural beings, without such a safeguard. Those unseen could cause her great harm.
Although, as she made her way down Harbour Street toward the derelict house and its scaffold-covered walls, her instincts told her that whatever Otherworldly vibrations she’d noticed there had all but dissipated. Only a trace remained, rippling the air with its dark, unknown energy when she stopped at the cottage door.
She sensed a presence, too. The spirit’s anger and resentment felt steeped in the walls, as if the ghost and the cottage were inseparable.
Glancing around, she expected the spirit to appear any moment. But the only thing that moved was the large DO NOT TRESPASS—PROJECT PENNARD sign taped to the door. One corner of the sign had come loose, the edges lifting in the brisk morning wind.
Nothing else stirred.
And she was going inside. As a quasi–Scotland’s Past employee, she surely wasn’t bending the rules too badly by ignoring the no-entry sign. Besides, if the preservation society was so bent on keeping out intruders, they’d have locked the door. A quick jiggle of the latch proved anyone who wished could enter.
So she did.
And stepping inside the house felt like pushing through a thick cloud of negative energy, the antagonism almost a palpable force in the cottage’s empty front room. Dim light was beginning to filter through the windows, revealing the mold growing up the walls. And the stone-flagged floor was cracked and dirty, giving the house an air of resentful reproach. Only a hint of residual menace remained, confirming her guess that the lesser entity she’d felt here on arrival had left.
The spirit she’d sensed on approaching the house also seemed to have vanished, leaving only an echo of his or her anger.
Kendra frowned and moved deeper into the house, edging around a pile of empty buckets, broken boards, and tarpaulin. The ghost and the lesser energy might have fled, but her gift’s heightened awareness warned her that something else was here, or approaching.
And it felt strong, very intense.
Its sense of positive force was also more than a little familiar.
Kendra took a deep breath, readying herself to deal with the powerful entity she knew would manifest any moment. She seldom reached out to him. The fact that he now showed proved the severity of Pennard’s problems.
“Raziel.” She turned to face a whirling vortex forming in a darkened corner. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t need your help.”
“So appreciative?” A tall m
an stepped out of the shimmering light column, his flowing blue robe and long, silvery hair shining with the same brilliance as his vortex. “You offend my heart, though I applaud your courage. No, you do not need me. Instinct will guide you, as always. Even so”—he came forward on a swirl of energy—“you should know the danger here comes from above and below.”
“Gee, thanks.” Kendra tucked her hair behind an ear, doing her best not to flinch beneath her main spirit guide’s piercing gaze. “I suppose you mean this village is troubled by hellish and heavenly beings?”
Raziel folded his arms, saying no more.
He did lift a brow, letting her know she’d given the wrong answer.
“Must you always be so cryptic?”
“Stretching your mind to find the answers deepens your wisdom.”
“You’re my spirit guide. That means you’re supposed to guide, not confuse me.”
“I watch over you.” His deep voice filled the little room. “Spirit guide is your term. I never called myself anything but my name. I am Raziel.”
Kendra drew a breath, knowing the pointlessness of arguing with him.
Striking in a strange, otherworldly way, Raziel had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. They reminded her of living sapphires, at turns looking like frosted chips of Arctic ice, and other times snapping with such blue fire she’d swear he could scorch with a glance.
Just now the glimmer of a smile lurked in his eyes, showing he knew he’d gotten the best of her.
“Okay, I’ll think on your message.” She let a slow smile spread across her own face. “Anything else you might want to relate?”
Raziel turned his head, sending a meaningful look at the darkened entry to a hallway. “You might ask her about books,” he said, the energy around him turning brighter.
Kendra blinked—his aura could be blinding at times—and then he was gone, nothing but a few dazzling sparkles remaining. Then they vanished, as well, fizzing slowly from sight. But a movement caught her attention and she turned, not surprised to see Saami watching her from the shadowed corridor.
Her only female spirit guide, Saami stood right where Raziel had just cast his glance. Dressed as flamboyantly sixtyish as always in a colorful gypsy skirt and low-cut peasant blouse, Saami wore her curling dark hair hidden beneath an intricately knotted red scarf and had hooked large golden rings in her ears. Though short and plump in stature, the style suited her, matching her pretty face and flashing black eyes. She also smelled strongly of patchouli.
Kendra angled her head, studying her.
Saami favored citrus scents. She switched between orange blossom and lemon, depending on her mood.
As Kendra stared, the spirit guide set her hands on her hips. “You can see me.”
Kendra stopped short. The voice wasn’t Saami’s. The entity wasn’t Saami, she saw now, though the resemblance was startling.
“Yes, I can.” Kendra stepped closer to the ghost and found herself looking into a face pinched with distrust. Now she knew the source of the house’s anger. Its stones were saturated by this woman’s spleen. “And I understand why you’re upset.” Kendra looked around, letting her gaze flit over the workmen’s clutter. “It’s hard to see other people move into a place you love.”
“I hate this house.” The ghost’s sharp tone belied her words.
The brightness of her eyes said more.
“They’re tearing down the walls.” The spirit shimmered, whooshing into the room. “Every day they come, scraping and hammering, ripping away my shelves”—she glanced at the broken boards on the floor—“just like he always threatened to do, the two-timing bastard.”
“Your husband?” Kendra knew she’d tipped right when the ghost’s hands curled into fists.
“Who else?” The ghost leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “He hated my books, threatened to toss them into the sea if I didn’t stop reading so much. But”—she straightened, her aura red with her grievances—“what was I supposed to do when he aye ignored me, going off to Aberdeen to carry on with the girls there?
“When he ruined one, he left me to marry her!” She spoke in a rush, the air around her crackling, ripping with the strength of her fury. “When I found out, I…” She clamped her lips, the unspoken words darkening her aura.
“She drove off in a rage.” A soft voice whispered the explanation in Kendra’s ear. She didn’t need to catch the whiff of orange blossom to know the real Saami stood at her shoulder, shielding herself so the spirit wouldn’t see her. “She had an accident, her car flipping when she swerved to avoid a deer. Her name is Lora Finney.
“She was a great beauty before bitterness marked her.” An increase in the scent of orange blossoms showed Saami’s empathy. “This village celebrated her as a hobby baker. She often won local scone-baking competitions. Now”—Saami lowered her voice—“she’s spending her time terrorizing the work crews. Yesterday she sent a ladder dancing across the floor, and she’s planning to toss that tarpaulin over their heads when they return this afternoon. Several of the men have quit, refusing to come back again.”
“Lora, the men here are cleaning mold off your walls.” Kendra used her gentlest voice and the best logic she could think to employ. “They aren’t here to tear down your home. They’re fixing it.”
It wasn’t the whole truth. But soothing the spirit’s upset mattered more.
“Fixing it for whom?” Lora Finney jammed her hands against her hips again. “The rat”—Kendra assumed she meant her husband—“married his Australian student lover and moved halfway around the world.”
“I’m not sure.” Kendra didn’t lie. But she did cast a glance over her shoulder, hoping Saami would volunteer a suggestion.
Unfortunately, the citrus-free air greeting her indicated her friend had gone.
But inspiration struck as she turned back to the angry ghost. “Did you know it’s said that success is the best revenge? What would you say if I can arrange for your house to be made into a library? A special place where locals can read the books you loved? And”—she hoped she could swing this—“perhaps there could even be a few corner tables so tea and scones made to your recipes could be served each afternoon. It could be called after you, Lora’s Literary Café.”
Lora Finney stared at her.
Kendra felt a bead of sweat trickle between her breasts. She’d never made such an outrageous, difficult-to-keep promise to a ghost before.
But Lora’s fate touched her.
“You do have a special recipe book somewhere here, don’t you?” Kendra’s instinct urged her to ask. When she caught a glimpse of Raziel and Saami watching her from across the room, each spirit guide nodding approval, she knew she was on the right track.
“I do.” Lora’s chin came up, the pride in her voice proving Kendra’s guess. “It’s in an old box in the kitchen. The workmen have buried the box under empty pails and tarpaulin, but it’s clearly marked BOOKS. My recipe book has a red leather cover and my name on the inside.”
“Then I’ll see it’s found—I promise.” Kendra wasn’t worried about locating the book. She did fret about her assurance that the house would be transformed into a reading and scone-serving refuge.
“You will do that?” Lora blinked, her stance relaxing as the last of her belligerence faded. “And see my bookshelves rebuilt? Do everything you’ve promised?”
“I will, and gladly.” Kendra hoped she could. Her influence with Scotland’s Past wasn’t great enough to work miracles.
But she meant to try.
The lightening of the atmosphere in the empty house encouraged her. And the barely there “thank you” that Lora Finney gave her as she faded back into the shadows made her determined to succeed.
A short while later, Kendra sat again at the corner table by the window in the pub restaurant of the Laughing Gull Inn and decided that a “full Scottish breakfast” ranked almost as high as a Scottish accent on her fast-growing list of everything to
love about Scotland.
A person could get by all day on such a feast.
Everything tasted so good.
It was just a shame that her visit to Lora Finney’s house and her wish to enjoy the Laughing Gull’s delicious breakfast offerings meant rising at an ungodly hour when she usually slept her deepest. Of course, her nine o’clock date with Graeme also came at a time she preferred burrowing beneath the covers.
Not that she’d minded crawling out of bed to help a needy ghost. The chance to spend the day with Graeme was also worth getting up early.
She’d done so gladly.
She just couldn’t deny the powerful attraction she felt for him.
Now that her work had gone so well, her mind snapped back to the dream she’d had of Graeme in the night. Too bad the heated dream had been so brief, ending almost before it’d started. She could still see him in the shadows of her room, his dark gaze locked on hers as he started toward her. She’d sat up in bed, the covers slipping down to reveal her naked breasts. He noticed at once, lowering his gaze, his expression turning darker, so charged with desire, as he looked at her.
In the dream, she knew he was going to reach for her, pulling her into his arms, and then…
It was over.
Her heart began to race, a whirl of emotion flaring inside her.
Even if it was a dream, no man had ever looked at her so hungrily. Graeme wasn’t just devastatingly attractive, able to captivate a woman with one look from his compelling gaze; he also loved dogs.
That meant something to her.
She toyed with her napkin, biting back a smile. It would surely strain her face muscles if she attempted levity before she’d had her second cup of coffee. And taking another sip of the weak instant brew reminded her to try the Scottish Breakfast tea the next morning.
Apparently, Scots couldn’t make good coffee.
Grimacing, she set down her cup.
An older couple—West Highlanders on a touring holiday, from their conversation—had claimed the table next to hers, and just listening to their soft, lilting accents made suffering bad coffee as insignificant as a dust mote. A country that spoke so beautifully could be allowed the minor failing of less-than-palatable java.
