Free Haunted Warrior by Allie Mackay

across her mind, quickly followed by strip malls, huge supermarkets with even larger parking lots, and an endless stream of fast-­food restaurants.
    “Damn…” She circled the pint glass on the polished wood of the small table.
    From the bar, she heard the soft music of Scottish voices. And through the window, she caught the wash of the sea against the harbor’s breakwater. But other sounds claimed her mind’s ear, reminding her of a place she knew well, a distant place where days often began with the rumble of garbage trucks, and leaf-­blower serenades always seemed to kick in just when a person most needed silence.
    She understood why Pennard’s locals weren’t happy about being forced from such a quiet and unobtrusive place.
    She, too, loved quiet.
    And for the first time ever, she felt an unpleasant pang at the thought of leaving an assignment and returning to her own world.
    But if she did her work well here, she might be able to help ensure that Pennard held on to a good measure of its perennial charm. And that the disembodied residents, at least, would find peace again.
    Hoping so, she took a tiny sip of Hibernator, her tension easing.
    “I admire a brave woman.” A deep Scottish voice caused her to almost choke on the ale.
    Looking up, she met the appreciative gaze of one the locals. He stood directly before her, managing to appearworldly-­wise despite his casual fisherman’s garb of jeans, work boots, and a bulky Aran sweater. Tall, broad shouldered, and blessed with a shock of gleaming black hair and clear blue eyes, he was also devilishly handsome.
    But in a smooth way that made her scoot back against the window bench, instinctively putting distance between them.
    “Brave?” It was all she could think to say.
    She did turn her head slightly, not liking how his cologne invaded her space. Heavy with musk and citrus, it spoiled the hint of peat smoke and fish and chips she’d been enjoying.
    “Courageous you are, aye.” He stepped even closer, his smile deepening. “It’s clear you’re not liking your pint of Hibernator.”
    “I love it.” Kendra took an overlarge gulp, hoping the lie wouldn’t circle back and make her gag.
    The dark ale
was
too much for her.
    But she’d rather choke it down than admit it.
    “I’m Gavin Ramsay. My house, Spindrift, is the one up on the bluff, beyond the east end of the village.” He thrust out a hand, leaving her little choice but to take it unless she wished to appear rude.
    She remembered the name, how Graeme MacGrath’s jaw had tightened as he’d spoken of Ramsay.
    Now here was the man, smiling down at her, his hand extended.
    And every local at the bar—­including Iain Garry and pinch-­faced Janet—­were turned their way, craning necks to watch them.
    “Kendra Chase.” She accepted the handshake, not surprised to find that though strong and warm, his hands weren’t at all calloused. They were smooth as a banker’s and nothing like one might expect of a man so ruggedly dashing and dressed in fisherman’s garb.
    “I’m American, here on holiday.” She withdrew her hand, leaving it at that. He didn’t need to know she hailed from Bucks County, Pennsylvania.
    He looked at her very intently. “Och, I ken you’re from the States. No other country produces such glamorous blondes. We don’t see many sleek, long-­legged beauties hereabouts.” He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, stretching his long legs to the fire. “That you’re here…”
    He didn’t finish the sentence, his gaze flicking to her pint of strong ale. “I’ve ordered a fine welcome dram for you.” His voice turned intimate. “A wonderful single malt from Royal Brackla, one of the few distilleries privileged to carry the word
royal
in its name.”
    His
r
s rolled beautifully, his burr rich and smooth—­as if practiced to perfection.
    Kendra suspected it was.
    She also understood why Graeme didn’t care for the man.
    She didn’t, either.
    “I don’t