Must Love Kilts (39 page)

She was working and couldn’t risk involvement.

Not that such a hunky Scotsman would give her the time of day if he
did
notice her.

She had on her oldest, most comfortable, but terribly worn walking shoes. However warm it kept her, her waxed jacket had also seen better days. And the wind had made a rat’s nest of her hair, blowing the strands every which way until she was sure she looked frightful.

It was then that she noticed the man on the dune
was
looking at her.

His gaze appeared deep, knowing, and intense, meeting hers in a way that made her heart pound. The air between them seemed to crackle, his stare almost a physical touch. A fluttery warmth spread through the lowest part of her belly. Decidedly pleasurable, the sensation reminded her how long it’d been since she’d slept with a man.

Embarrassed, she hoped he couldn’t tell.

She didn’t do one-night stands.

But she felt the man’s perusal in such an intimate way—his gaze slid over her, lingering in places that stirred a reaction. He made her
want
, his slow-roaming assessment sluicing her with desire.

She tried to glance aside, pretending she hadn’t stopped walking to stare at him. But she couldn’t look away. Her eyes were beginning to burn because she wasn’t even blinking.

Retreat wasn’t an option.

Her legs refused to stir. Some strange, invisible band sizzled between them, then wound around her like a lover’s arms, shocking and sensuous. The sensation dried her mouth and weakened her knees, making it impossible for her to move as he looked her over, from her tangled hair to her scuffed shoes. His gaze returned to her breasts, hovering there as if he knew her bulky all-weather jacket hid a bosom she considered her best asset.

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, the wind picked up, the chill gusts buffeting her roughly and 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 had also vanished.

Sure, the strand still stretched as endless as before, the red-gold sand almost garnet-colored where the surf rushed in. The sea looked as angry as ever, with violent white-crested waves. Their roar filled the air, loud and thunderous. And the western sky still blazed scarlet. 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 I 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. 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 have been the only explanation.

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.

But as she neared the first one, she saw that someone else had the same idea. A tall, pony-tailed 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 tranquility after weeks of hard, 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 most undisturbed had proved crowded.

The man at the bunker 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 towards 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 stil shone with the same gleam that 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 bonny Scotland, what?”

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

No one did.

“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 tops of her ears heated. Because, of course, his well-fitting jeans revealed that a certain very 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 a while, 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 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 passionately, so fast.

He towered over her, his big, powerful body mere inches from hers. She could feel his breath warm on her face, teasing and tempting her. His nearness 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. 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 she was especially good with the discontented ones. They 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.

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. He’d been real, solid, and definitely red-blooded.

So what was he?

Burning to know, Kendra clutched her jacket tighter and hurried down the strand. Scotland certainly was proving to be interesting.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Allie Mackay
is the alter ego of Sue-Ellen Welfonder, a
USA Today
bestselling author who writes medieval romances. Her twenty-year career with the airlines allowed her to see the world, but it was always to Scotland that she returned. Now a full-time writer, she’s quick to admit that she much prefers wielding a pen to pushing tea and coffee. She spent fifteen years living in Europe and used that time to explore as many castle ruins, medieval abbeys, and stone circles as possible. She makes annual visits to Scotland, insisting they are a necessity, as each trip gives her inspiration for new books.

Proud of her own Hebridean ancestry, she belongs to two clan societies and never misses a chance to attend Highland games. In addition to Scotland, her greatest passions are medieval history, the paranormal, and dogs. She never watches television, loves haggis, and writes at a 450-year-old desk that once stood in a Bavarian castle.