Haunted Warrior (21 page)

Kendra blinked. “I’ve heard of such schemes.”

She’d expected something worse.

“Aye, it’s a common moneymaking ploy here.” He looked at her, his expression measuring, as if he were debating what to tell her.

“That’s surely not why you dislike him so much.” She knew there was more.

He cut the motor, letting the
Sea Wyfe
rock in the current. “There are many reasons Ramsay and I aren’t friends.” His tone was somber, his dark gaze locked on hers. “The land he wanted was my own. He sought to get his hands on my family’s ancestral seat, the crumbling shell of Castle Grath.

“Selling deeds to Americans was only a front.” His voice turned cold, his disdain palpable. “Ramsay had no intention of ever allowing Diaspora Scots to run over the property, waving titles and maps and looking for their little piece of the Auld Hameland.

“What he wanted”—­he pushed back his hair again—­“was free rein to tear up the ruin and dig the land.”

“He was hoping to find buried treasure?” Kendra was again surprised.

Searching for treasure was the pastime of many.

But it didn’t make people evil.

The look on Graeme’s face said it did. “Not really treasure, nae.” He shook his head, watching her as he spoke. “Ramsay hoped to find a relic he believed might be secreted at Grath.”

Kendra’s interest quickened. “A relic?”

“Of sorts, aye.”

“Of sorts?” Kendra repeated his words.

He looked sorry he’d let them slip. “An
instrument of destruction
is a better term.”

Kendra felt her eyes round. “I don’t understand.”

“Be glad you don’t.” He glanced at the clouds gathering on the horizon and frowned. “Ramsay hoped to locate the Shadow Wand, a fabled length of jet and amber once said to have been in my family’s possession. Anyone who wielded the relic held untold power.” He looked at her as if he expected her to laugh.

She didn’t.

“There’s more, I can tell,” she pressed, sensing in the air stirrings that the Shadow Wand was of much greater significance than a mere myth. She tucked her hair behind an ear, kept her voice neutral. “I’d love to hear why he wanted such a thing. Most people wouldn’t—­”

“Gavin Ramsay isn’t like anyone you’ve ever met.” He paused less than a second. “I told you he carries the taint of his ancestors.”

“I remember.”

“Their blood has influenced him.” Graeme’s face was deadly earnest.

“So?” Kendra hoped she didn’t sound flippant. But she didn’t want to show too much interest and risk him going silent.

“It’s simple.” He spoke matter-­of-­factly. “Gavin Ramsay’s forebear, Morcant, was a dark druid. He was also the original owner of the Shadow Wand. When his greed and thirst for power made him even more corrupt, the wand fell into the hands of my ancestors.

“Or so clan legend claims.” He turned back to the boat’s wheel, as if the subject were closed.

Kendra was only getting started. “And now Gavin wants the relic back.”

“That he does.” Graeme restarted the motor. “And I am here to thwart him.”

Kendra grabbed her seat as the
Sea Wyfe
surged forward, cutting straight through a swell, the spray pluming down the boat’s sides.

And I am here to thwart him
. Graeme’s words echoed in her mind, something telling her there was much more to their rivalry than him keeping his foe from finding a legendary relic that might not even be real.

Graeme
was
real.

And seeing him so determined and fierce only made him all the more attractive to her. He’d wrapped himself around her heart now. It was only a matter of time before he noticed her feelings.

She was doing the one thing she’d vowed never to do: fall in love on the job.

Graeme looked at the cliffs towering above the
Sea Wyfe
and knew he’d gone too far. Not distance-­wise, but in sharing such confidences with Kendra.

He should not have spoken of the Shadow Wand to her.

He’d been equally foolish to show the depth of his animosity toward Ramsay. Kendra couldn’t begin to understand the danger posed by the bastard.

And he wanted to keep it that way.

There were times when ignorance really was bliss.

This was one of them.

Sliding a glance at Kendra now, he saw that such a shield of innocence might just be possible. She leaned forward with her gaze on the cliffs, her eyes lit with wonder. He knew the look. It was the misty-­eyed, oooh-­this-­is-­the-­land-­of-­my-­ancestors sense of affinity most often seen on the faces of Scotland-­loving Americans whenever
they encountered anything even remotely resembling their sentimental ideals of
Braveheart
or
Briga-
doon
.

Many of them wore that expression for the entire two-­week duration of their Scotland holiday, telling anyone who’d listen that this is where they belonged. Even those without Scottish roots declared often and enthusiastically that they’d always dreamed of the Highlands.

Heather ran in their veins, they’d swear. Only half-­jokingly, they’d claim that if you cut them, they’d bleed tartan. They were also quick to assert that bottled peat smoke would fly off the shelves in the States, proving irresistible to a public hungry for all things Scottish. Tins of Highland mist would do even better. As for kilts and the famed accent, the comments didn’t bear recalling. Or that every castle, glen, or hill was some tourist’s ancestral home, calling them back to Scotland. The pull, as they called such yearning, gripped them powerfully, giving them no peace until they bought a plane ticket and flew to Glasgow.

When they did, they felt complete.

Graeme stifled a snort of annoyance.

Like his fellow countrymen, he’d heard such proclamations often enough.

Loving Scotland was epidemic and those suffering the ailment were incurable. They also knew countless ways to express their passion. Any moment he expected Kendra to join their ranks, perhaps pressing a hand to her breast or gasping a few oohs and ahs.

Not that she struck him as a hopeless Scotophile on the usual coming-­home pilgrimage.

But she did appreciate Pennard.

He blew out a breath, glad for the cold sea wind in his face.

Kendra’s interest in the spectacular coastline let him
hope that she hadn’t paid too much attention to his talk and complaints about Ramsay. Or the dread relic he wished didn’t exist.

He’d spoken as if it was bit of fabled fluff, good for a fireside tale on a cold and dark winter night, but nothing real enough to impact the modern world.

Too bad it wasn’t so.

What mattered was that a strong swell was running and a brisk wind blew from the west. In a few moments, they’d round the thickest bulk of Grath Point, and Kendra would see his seals. The creatures he monitored and protected. Looking out for them gave his many-­yeared existence meaning. And—­he shot another hopefully casual look at Kendra as they left the wider waters and headed closer to shore—­soon she’d also spot the dark silhouette of Castle Grath etched against the scudding clouds, just appearing above the crags.

Somewhere deep inside him, something pinched and squeezed, an old pain he usually kept at bay. Not this morning. Now the ache stabbed with a vengeance, cruelly reminding him of what once was and could never again be.

He frowned, took a deep, steadying breath.

How he would’ve loved to show Kendra his home in another time and place.

Back in the days when Grath’s walls were whole and strong, the roofs intact, and roaring hearth fires, tapestried rooms, and good food and ale ensured the comfort of all within. Years when every stone would’ve been clean, well swept, and polished, rather than how they were now—­crumbling to dust and covered with grass and nettles.

Grath was now an empty, windswept place full of echoes and shadows.

And—­Graeme tightened his hands on the boat’s
wheel—­he wished he’d taken Kendra to see the seals at Fraserburgh Harbor rather than risk bringing her anywhere near Grath Point and his memories.

He was vulnerable here.

It wasn’t a state he enjoyed.

His blood pumped, but not in a good way. The past leapt on him from every tide-­washed rock, each dark, wet-­glistening fissure in the crag seeming to watch him with reproachful eyes. Everything here reminded him of those who’d gone before him and whom he wouldn’t see again until his own seven hundred years and a day had passed.

Though if all went to plan—­his plan, no one else’s—­he wouldn’t meet his loved ones then, either. He didn’t intend to leave the required heir. His obstinacy would damn him, but he didn’t care. To his way of looking at things, he was cursed already.

So he’d vanish quietly, taking his legacy with him.

He’d be the last MacGrath.

That was the epitaph he desired.

And he had another seventy-­five years to wait until the words could be carved into his headstone. So he pushed the thought from his mind and glanced again at his fetching passenger, surprised to see that she’d turned away from the cliffs.

They were deeply indented now, a steep, dark shoreline full of caves, narrow entrances to hidden coves, and secret glimpses of pristine, inaccessible beaches. Huge seas and white water made approaching the coast here a tricky endeavor, but he knew every rock and channel. Even when rain and darkness thickened the air, he could find a way ashore. And this day was glorious, with clear autumn light shining on the water and letting the spray sparkle.

It was a sight to stir the blood.

Yet…

He frowned. An uneasy sensation at the back of his neck warned that something wasn’t right.

Kendra’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. Long lines of huge rollers could be seen there, their crests flashing white in the morning sun. They seemed to fascinate her.

“The North Sea aye has such rollers.” Graeme watched her carefully. “You’d be hard-­pressed to find rougher seas anywhere. These are unpredictably violent waters, the currents fatal if you’re no’ careful.”

“M’hmmm.” She didn’t even blink.

And the look on her face was the same as at the Laughing Gull when she’d thought she’d glimpsed a ghostly fleet of herring boats.

Graeme shoved back his hair, ran a hand across his nape. Instinct told him he wouldn’t like her answer if he asked what had caught her eye.

He didn’t think it was the breakers.

Looking away from her, he shot a glance at the cliffs. Broad, flat ledges of glistening black rock garnished the foot of the bluff and sheltered them from the worst of the wind.

They were almost at Grath Point.

Being here was sheer torment, yet he returned again and again.

“I can see these waters are treacherous. Wild seas, full of danger, exacting a high toll on those who seek to know her.” Kendra turned to face him then, her face clear again, her eyes bright. “Yet you love it here, the fine, deep harbor and the immense blue of the sea. Whether glassy and calm or sullen gray and rough, you live to be out here.”

“Aye, I do.” Graeme had never spoken more true words. Grath, Pennard, Balmedie—­this entire coast was his life, literally.

“You’ll soon see one of the reasons.” He slowed the boat, wondering if she’d notice the colorful sea tangle waving in the current, the gleaming rock pools winking at them from along the proud, curving edge of Grath Point. “My seals’ main haul-­out site is just ahead.”

Her gaze went upward instead of forward. The shell of Grath’s ruinous tower was just coming into view, and it was there she’d focused her attention.

When she looked back at him, her blue eyes shone. “You didn’t tell me you were a laird.”

She might as well have kicked him in the gut.

“I’m not.” His denial was a half-­truth. As the last of his line, he didn’t laird it over anyone.

He did hold the title.

She peered up again at the crumbling tower, the empty windows now coming into better view, each horrid opening like black, sightless eyes.

Graeme tried not to shudder.

She looked enchanted.

“I know you are.” Her tone left no room for argument. “A laird, I mean.” She angled her head, studying him. “Iain showed me the photo of the ruin last night. He also told me about Janet.”

“Iain talks too much.” Graeme made a silent note to tell the innkeeper to mind his own business. “And poor Janet should never have climbed up to Grath every day, and so doggedly.” He purposely didn’t comment on Kendra’s remark about the old picture at the inn. “No good came of her vigils. Her husband didn’t even die at sea. She wasted time and energy, putting herself in peril just to watch his boat return each e’en. It was all for naught. Poor Dod suffered a heart attack right in front of her workplace.”

If he’d hoped to shock her, he’d failed. To his annoyance,
she looked intrigued, even leaning forward to hang on his every word.

Not that he felt like divulging anything else.

“Was it near the red phone box?” Her question took him by surprise.

It was the last thing he’d expected.

He frowned, rubbed the back of his neck. He could almost feel the collar of his sweater tightening.

She pressed, getting that odd look on her face again. “Is that where her husband died?”

“No’ quite.” Graeme remembered the night well. “Dod died in the road. He’d meant to collect Janet, for they aye enjoyed a stroll along the waterfront after she finished work. Dod keeled over before he made it halfway across the road. He was beyond help, dead instantly.”

“I see…” She nodded, reached to smooth her hair off her face. “Janet’s had a rough time.”

“She’s no’ been the same since, that’s true.” Graeme slanted a look down at the dancing tangle, not wanting to speak of death.

“That’s understandable.” She looked sympathetic.

“She needs to get on with her life.”

“Sometimes it isn’t that easy.”

“Nothing ever has been in these parts.” Graeme knew that well.

For centuries, here little had changed. Men went to sea, seeking their well-­guarded fishing grounds and spending their time on land baiting lines, filling trawl tubs, or preparing lobster traps, all for the next day’s haul. Their wives worked even harder, raising large families, darning socks and knitting sweaters, baking bread and cooking meals. In their spare time, they picked berries or dug clams. And throughout their toil, they kept
one eye on the sea, always worrying, hoping their men would return safely.