her across the street in the opposite direction. Her powerful attraction to him and the way his strong, warm fingers held her wrist sent ripples of awareness through her entire body, making it difficult to focus on the older man lounging against the phone box.
He did look their way then, bending to pat Jock as the dog trotted by him. Jock was clearly more interested in sniffing along the marina walk than stopping to greet someone who didn’t have a treat at hand. The pavement smells and the cold night air, flavored with hints of brine, proved a greater temptation.
When the man straightened, smiling after the dog, Kendra decided she’d erred.
The man’s attention was on the Laughing Gull Inn, not her.
Even so, she slowed her feet, glancing back at him.
It was then that Graeme stopped before a small alleyway between two tiny cottages on the seaward side of the street. Small enough to be dollhouses, the low, thick-walled cottages had doors and windows that were tightly boarded and gave off the resigned air of houses so long abandoned that they’d forgotten what it was like to have someone walk inside and greet the place as a home.
The tight space between the cottages ran straight to the water’s edge. And except at the far end, where one
of the harbor lights cast a reflection on the nearby water, the narrow alleyway was dark and filled with dank, briny air.
“Come, you.” Graeme pulled her into those shadows, leading her down the alleyway to where a broken bench sagged against the wall. “We can speak here.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing in the pub.” Kendra wasn’t keen on speaking with him here, in the cold dark of a narrow space between two centuries-old cottages that positively reeked of sorrow.
She looked past him to where Jock paced at the seaward end of the alleyway, his ears pricked as he stared into the water, seemingly fascinated by the reflection of the harbor lights.
“Talking and”—she turned back to Graeme, not missing that the grin he’d worn in the pub was gone—“a few other things I’m still digesting.”
“I won’t kiss you again, if that’s worrying you.” He let his gaze drop briefly to her mouth. She could tell even in the dimness. When he met her eyes again, he was all seriousness. “I needed to get you out of the Laughing Gull,somewhere we wouldn’t be overheard.”
“I can’t imagine why.” That he could brush off such a kiss so easily made her testy.
He angled his head, studying her. “I would’ve thought you’d understand.”
Kendra crossed her arms against the cold and stepped away from him. “You’re a very unpredictable man, Graeme MacGrath. How can I begin to understand the motives for anything you choose to do?”
“Because”—he was right in front of her again, towering over her—“when you were gazing out the inn window, you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Or perhaps a fleet of ghost ships, as that’s what you claimed.”
“I said no such thing.” His words made her throat go dry.
“You didn’t have to.” He took her chin, turning her face back to him when she tried to glance away. “You said you saw the herring boats coming in on the tide. Everyone in the pub heard you.”
“So?” She jerked free of his grasp and flicked her hair behind an ear. “I saw the path of the moon glittering on the water. The boats I fancied I saw out there were an illusion, nothing more.”
She hoped he’d believe her.
The look he gave her said he didn’t. “Whether you saw a few moon sparkles on the water or whate’er, the problem is that Scots are a superstitious lot. This might be an age of air travel and instant Internet gratification, but if you scratch the surface of any Scot’s psyche, you’ll find someone who believes in second sight, the evil eye, and all manner of other things our ancestors knew lurked in the mist, including haints. We call them bogles hereabouts—ghosts to you.”
“I don’t believe in
He did look their way then, bending to pat Jock as the dog trotted by him. Jock was clearly more interested in sniffing along the marina walk than stopping to greet someone who didn’t have a treat at hand. The pavement smells and the cold night air, flavored with hints of brine, proved a greater temptation.
When the man straightened, smiling after the dog, Kendra decided she’d erred.
The man’s attention was on the Laughing Gull Inn, not her.
Even so, she slowed her feet, glancing back at him.
It was then that Graeme stopped before a small alleyway between two tiny cottages on the seaward side of the street. Small enough to be dollhouses, the low, thick-walled cottages had doors and windows that were tightly boarded and gave off the resigned air of houses so long abandoned that they’d forgotten what it was like to have someone walk inside and greet the place as a home.
The tight space between the cottages ran straight to the water’s edge. And except at the far end, where one
of the harbor lights cast a reflection on the nearby water, the narrow alleyway was dark and filled with dank, briny air.
“Come, you.” Graeme pulled her into those shadows, leading her down the alleyway to where a broken bench sagged against the wall. “We can speak here.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing in the pub.” Kendra wasn’t keen on speaking with him here, in the cold dark of a narrow space between two centuries-old cottages that positively reeked of sorrow.
She looked past him to where Jock paced at the seaward end of the alleyway, his ears pricked as he stared into the water, seemingly fascinated by the reflection of the harbor lights.
“Talking and”—she turned back to Graeme, not missing that the grin he’d worn in the pub was gone—“a few other things I’m still digesting.”
“I won’t kiss you again, if that’s worrying you.” He let his gaze drop briefly to her mouth. She could tell even in the dimness. When he met her eyes again, he was all seriousness. “I needed to get you out of the Laughing Gull,somewhere we wouldn’t be overheard.”
“I can’t imagine why.” That he could brush off such a kiss so easily made her testy.
He angled his head, studying her. “I would’ve thought you’d understand.”
Kendra crossed her arms against the cold and stepped away from him. “You’re a very unpredictable man, Graeme MacGrath. How can I begin to understand the motives for anything you choose to do?”
“Because”—he was right in front of her again, towering over her—“when you were gazing out the inn window, you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Or perhaps a fleet of ghost ships, as that’s what you claimed.”
“I said no such thing.” His words made her throat go dry.
“You didn’t have to.” He took her chin, turning her face back to him when she tried to glance away. “You said you saw the herring boats coming in on the tide. Everyone in the pub heard you.”
“So?” She jerked free of his grasp and flicked her hair behind an ear. “I saw the path of the moon glittering on the water. The boats I fancied I saw out there were an illusion, nothing more.”
She hoped he’d believe her.
The look he gave her said he didn’t. “Whether you saw a few moon sparkles on the water or whate’er, the problem is that Scots are a superstitious lot. This might be an age of air travel and instant Internet gratification, but if you scratch the surface of any Scot’s psyche, you’ll find someone who believes in second sight, the evil eye, and all manner of other things our ancestors knew lurked in the mist, including haints. We call them bogles hereabouts—ghosts to you.”
“I don’t believe in
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