Chapter 2

2

“This is your fault, laddie.”

Graeme MacGrath, lifelong resident of Pennard, scowled at his dog, Jock, as he bent to dip a sponge into a bucket of soapy water. His frown turned even blacker when a curtain of sea spray flew over the wall of a nearby breakwater, dousing him and the small blue rental car he was presently washing.

The spray didn’t reach Jock, sprawled as he was on the Keel’s door stoop.

And the dog’s smug expression said he felt his master deserved the brine shower.

“If it weren’t for you”—Graeme circled the sponge over the car’s driver’s-side window—“thon American lassie would be halfway to Banff by now. She’d spend the night in a posh tourist hotel and take tea at Duff House on the morrow. She wouldn’t be here where her like has no business.”

Jock shifted on the stoop, clearly settling down for a nap in the afternoon’s cold sunlight.

It was a favorite trick—feigning sleep when he wished to wriggle out of an argument.

“She isn’t an ordinary tourist.” Graeme dipped his sponge in the bucket again, sure of his statement. He’d seen the sheen of her aura at Balmedie. It’d been what first caught his attention when he’d seen her from the dunes. And this afternoon, up on the bluff, the light halo surrounding her glowed like sun, almost blinding him.

She was likely unaware.

Most people didn’t even know they had auras.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only soul in Pennard who understood such things. Feeling bile rise in his throat, Graeme shot a glare at the Spindrift, high above the far end of the village. If his nemesis, Gavin Ramsay, spotted her, he’d know in a beat that she was exceptional. Like Graeme, he’d recognize her as so much more than a sexy, desirable woman with a fetching American drawl.

And that meant...

“We’ll have to look out for her, Jock.” Graeme glanced again at his dog.

He wasn’t surprised when the sneaky beast’s lip lifted in Jock’s version of a self-satisfied smile.

“Better yet”—Graeme returned to car washing—“we’ll have to make sure she leaves Pennard quickly.”

Jock rolled over, showing Graeme his back.

Fluting canine snores soon filled the air, joining the whistle of the wind and the splash of waves on the stone of the breakwater.

Graeme knew he’d lost a battle.

Jock always won.

Not that Graeme minded. Far from it; knowing the dog happy was one of the high points of his life. He doubted he could tolerate certain things without Jock. But Kendra Chase’s arrival had soured his day. He just hoped Jock’s badgering for a second afternoon cliff walk hadn’t had anything to do with the lovely American.

If so…

He tightened his grip on the sponge and threw another glance at the dog.

Jock’s snores grew louder.

Any further glares were pointless. Jock played the game well and wouldn’t stir until hunger disturbed him. Now as always, Jock’s appreciation of food would prove greater than his wish to irritate his master with make-believe slumber.

So Graeme pretended, as well, doing as if the snores didn’t faze him.

He did look down the narrow street where rolling mist slid past the Laughing Gull. Thicker now, the sea haar drifted in from the bay, blotting the inn and other cottages from view. Wind brought the cold, damp smell of rain and the sun vanished again, slipping behind clouds to leave Pennard in the usual gray tones of autumn.

Graeme frowned and grabbed the hose, washing soap foam from Kendra Chase’s car. A vehicle she clearly had no business trying to drive. Although her walking about Pennard in such dense, enveloping mist as was now gathering proved a much worse prospect.

So much in the tiny fishing hamlet wasn’t as it seemed.

Pennard wasn’t just a tightly knit community bound together by ages of raw weather, hardship, and the sea. Nor was the village’s reality anything like the picture-postcard quaintness so loved in recent times by the hordes of camera-packing summer tourists eager for a taste of briny wind, fresh seafood, and a good dose of Herring Fisher nostalgia.

Such visitors enjoyed experiencing the feel of bygone eras without the modern world’s hectic pace and stress. Others came to trace their ancestral roots, their interest sparked by Braveheart and the popularity in America of certain Scottish actors.

They hoped to find a simpler time in Pennard.

But those days were gone.

The erstwhile herring fleet had long been usurped by a handful of small fishing craft and, in season, the pleasure boats hoping to take visitors to see seals, dolphins, and the still-impressive coastal views.

Other things also remained.

More than dark and mist curled around the stone cottages come nightfall. Just as foaming swells weren’t all that crashed against the breakwaters. And curious old women weren’t always responsible for the twitching edges of curtains when a stranger passed by.

Pennard held dangerous secrets.

And his was the most damning of all.

Scowling again, Graeme snatched a dry cloth and began polishing the driver’s door of the car, scrubbing with a vengeance.

It scarce mattered that his burden was a noble one.

Keeping Pennard and its residents safe was a legacy his family had carried for centuries. Their status and title as Guardians of the Shadow Wand, a timeless relic entrusted to their care with all the honor’s attendant requirements, had altered his life.

And duty alone was the reason he’d return the American lassie’s car by parking it outside the Laughing Gull. He’d leave the keys with Iain rather than inviting her for a walk along the shore, followed by an offer to cook dinner for her. He wouldn’t regret not treating her to a romantic Scottish evening before his peat fire.

Women, as far as he could recall, enjoyed snuggling before the hearth on chill, damp nights when the mist pressed against the windows. The occasional call of a fog horn or the sound of the sea running out beyond the arm of the harbor didn’t hurt, either.

Suchlike made a woman lean into a man, welcoming his strong embrace.

And Kendra Chase was a woman he wouldn’t mind pulling into his arms. Lithe and shapely, she had the kind of well-made curves that would fill a man’s arms nicely, warming him on the fiercest winter night. He liked her shining blonde hair, cut at her chin. The first time she’d turned her gaze on him when he was on the dunes at Balmedie, her large blue eyes captivated him, instantly heating his blood.

But it was how those sparkling sapphire eyes had widened, then softened with understanding when he’d told her what Scotland’s Past’s plans would do to the locals, that sealed it for him.

She might be an outsider, a tourist from a world and culture he couldn’t begin to comprehend and also didn’t care to, but she clearly appreciated the importance of heritage and pride in one’s birthplace.

Her spirit also drew him. She would’ve driven down Cliff Road simply to prove to him that she could, even though dread had been written all over her face.

Instinct told him she’d respond if he pursued her. He burned to do so. To bring her here to the Keel for just this one night. An indulgence he shouldn’t allow himself, especially not with her, yet the prospect proved almost irresistible. Even the thought of standing behind her, holding her arms lightly and bending his head to give her a simple neck nuzzle, set his pulse to roaring.

If he restrained himself, it might be possible to just enjoy her company.

Make her dinner, perhaps win a few kisses and…

He cursed and tossed the drying towel onto the bench beside his cottage’s blue-painted door.

If Kendra Chase came anywhere near him again, he’d want more than kisses from her.

He already did.

He also felt a chill sweep the back of his neck in the same moment that Jock sprang to his feet and leapt off the door stoop. Not feigning sleep now, the dog snarled, hackles rising. Then he shot around the corner, making for the shed at the back of the cottage.

“Jock, wait!” Graeme sprinted after him, wishing as so many times before that his dog was less bold.

Canine heroics led to heartache.

Running faster, Graeme raced down the muddy path alongside the house, nipping around Jock just before the dog could launch himself at the spike-haired youth who stood frozen before the shed door.

He was Ritchie Watt, local ne’er-do-well.

And he’d been trying to break into the shed.

Jock froze, as well. But he shook with menace, his growls reverberating low in his chest.

“Inside, Jock.” Graeme jerked his head toward the front of the cottage, fixing the dog with a look he used only on rare occasions. “Away with you now, and dinnae be coming back out here.”

Jock didn’t meet his eye, his unblinking stare pinned on the white-faced youth. But when Graeme angled his head, putting all his will into a silent command, the dog gave one last snarl and then trotted back down the path, disappearing around the front corner.

Graeme released the breath he’d been holding.

Ritchie Watt was good with a gutting knife and he held one in his hand now. It was the blade he’d been using to try and pry open the shed door. And the glazed look in his dark-circled eyes left no doubt that if Jock had sprung on him, he would’ve used the knife.

“Drop your blade, lad.” Graeme started toward him, hoping the boy didn’t do anything foolish. “You dinnae want me to take it from you.”

“As if you could.” Ritchie made a dash for the rock face rising steeply behind the shed. The knife fell from his hand as he flung himself at the cliff, scrambling for a foothold.

“You’re no’ going anywhere.” Graeme reached him in three easy strides. He plucked the ruffian off the rocks, thrusting him back against the shed. “And you wouldn’t have made it into my shed if you tried for a hundred years. You know that, I’m thinking?”

Ritchie gave him a surly look rather than answer.

“There’s naught but old salt barrels in there.” The thought that Gavin Ramsay would send a lackey to invade his shed, prying into one of the few things he cherished as a semblance of normalcy in his life, stoked a fury Graeme didn’t want to unleash on a misguided lad like Ritchie Watt. “They’re from o’er two hundred years ago, when the herring fleets crowded this wee harbor.

“Thon barrels”—he leaned in, anger giving an edge to his voice—“were once packed with silver darlings, the herring that meant bread and living for Pennard and this whole coast in those days.”

“I don’t care about herring barrels.” Ritchie’s eyes glittered, his chin jutting defiantly.

“You should.” Graeme glanced at the shed door and then at the youth. “I do, and my shed’s full of them. Whole barrels, half barrels, and a few firkins, sweet little quarter barrels, if you’ve forgotten so much of this place’s history, you dinnae ken what a firkin is.

“They’re the salt barrels I restore and give out on loan to the Laughing Gull and anyone needing them for a ceilidh or other gathering.” Graeme released the youth, letting a hard stare hold him in place.

“And there’s nothing inside the barrels except air, age, and a hint of brine.” He stepped closer, bracing a fist against the shed wall next to Ritchie’s head. “Tell that to Ramsay, and warn him that the next fool he sends to my house will suffer more than leaving here with his knife bent from prying into places where it doesn’t belong.”

“My knife’s not bent.” Ritchie glared at him, his gaze flicking to the rock face where the herring knife had slipped from his fingers.

The muddy ground was empty.

Following his gaze, Graeme smiled. “Your blade’s here.” He held out the knife on his palm, watching the youth’s eyes round as he snatched the bent-double weapon from Graeme’s hand.

He suspected Ritchie knew he’d bent the blade.

Just as the lad now knew that the boundary spells Graeme kept around his property worked better than any dark magic Gavin Ramsay could conjure. It didn’t matter that Ritchie and his like, or even the whole village, never dared voice such suspicions.

Worrying about his supposed powers was enough to keep them at bay.

At least, it had been until recently.

So he reached for the shed’s door latch, lifting it with ease. “This shed is ne’er locked.” It was sealed against evil. But that wasn’t his point. “If e’er you feel a true interest in preserving old salt barrels, the door will open for you. I’ll gladly teach you how to get the salt crust and grime off them and bring them back to their original beauty. Until that day comes...”

He let his voice trail away, piercing the youth with a look that said more than words.

“Off with you now.” He gave the lad a light shove. “And tell Ramsay what I said. Then, if you’ve any sense, you’ll say him goodbye.”

His last words were lost, carried away by a quickening wind as Ritchie tore down the path and disappeared onto Harbour Street. His running footsteps echoed through the evening as Graeme quietly closed the shed door. As always, he didn’t lock it.

Nor was there a need.

The Shadow Wand wasn’t kept inside Graeme’s barrel shed. It was an unlikely reason for Ramsay to send the youth to peek about the shed. Ramsay wouldn’t be so witless as to send a stripling like Watt to look for such a powerful relic.

More likely, Ramsay hoped to strike Graeme where it would hurt and must’ve ordered the lad to damage the salt barrels or roll a few of them into the sea.

Everyone knew Graeme loved the old barrels.

What they didn’t know was that the cooper who’d made them had been a good friend of Graeme’s.

But that was long ago.

Remembering made him start determinedly down his cottage’s narrow side path. He’d been careless of late. Watching so diligently over Pennard and the coast, keeping out an eye for Ramsay’s growing influence, caused him to lower his guard at the Keel.

Coming with ill intent, Ritchie shouldn’t have been able to set foot onto Graeme’s property. He should’ve been repelled at the street.

So Graeme did what he should have done weeks ago and collected a pail from beneath the blue-painted bench beside his door. Kept ready thanks to the moonwater that filled it—gathered rain regularly replenished and set out to catch the moon’s silvery glow—the pail felt light in his hand.

Lightness that proved the moonwater still held a good measure of power.

Not enough to keep Watt off the property, but it’d surely helped to prevent him from opening the shed door.

Still...

Stronger measures were required. The strengthening of Graeme’s protective shields around the Keel needed immediate attention. Preferably without the interference of a certain border collie.

“You stay here.” Graeme gave his dog a look. “I’ll no’ have you shadowing me.”

Jock, now sitting on the stoop, lowered his head solemnly, as if in agreement.

Not trusting him, Graeme indicated the door, slightly ajar. “Away in with you, laddie. You’ve a fine, warm plaid before the fire and I’m no’ of a mind to have an audience just now.”

Jock didn’t budge.

And Graeme didn’t have the heart to scold him further.

He did reach to rub the dog’s ears. Then he emptied the pail of its moonwater before crossing the road in front of his cottage. Harbour Street ended at the Keel, bounded by the high bluff at its back. Just beyond, a small cave marked Pennard Bay’s western edge.

Little more than a gash in the rock, the cave wasn’t large enough to hold the picnic table on the pebbly strand before its entrance. A relic from the filming of The Herring Fisher, the table was popular with tourists because the cave offered shelter from wind and spray.

Above all, its black-glistening walls couldn’t be penetrated by curious eyes.

The cave, Graeme suspected, had been used by his like for centuries.

He certainly appreciated its positioning.

As, he was sure, had every MacGrath Guardian before him.

He headed that way now, already focusing on the task before him. Without looking back at Jock—a single glance over his shoulder would have the dog running to him—he left the road’s end and stepped onto the strip of shingly beach skirting the cave.

Strong wind hit him at once, sharp and smelling of seaweed and brine. Cold, bracing air, thick with salt and seasoned with peat smoke, to Graeme it was a blend headier than wine. Wet stones shifted and crunched beneath his feet, and spray splashed against the larger rocks at the water’s edge. This was his world, and he gloried in the surge and swell of the sea, the wind and mist that he loved so much.

Sadly, Pennard’s balance was bruised.

And it fell to him to keep the damage from worsening.

It was a burden he shouldered gladly.

Even so, his jaw tightened when he couldn’t keep his gaze from straying to the high crags at the far end of the bay. The haar was thickening, hanging low over the water and cloaking the cliffs. But pinpricks of yellow light glimmered through the mist where Ramsay’s Spindrift claimed a prominent ledge, the big house taunting and tormenting him. Just as the bastard’s forebears had bedeviled every MacGrath Guardian down the ages.

A self-proclaimed entrepreneur—windbag and arse, to Graeme’s mind—Ramsay’s seemingly endless funds supposedly came from his family’s involvement in the Aberdeen oil boom of the previous century.

Graeme suspected other origins.

Not that it mattered.

What did matter was that Ramsay had always shown an aptitude for noticing the supernatural. And now, of all times, a fetching American with an overbright aura had to visit Pennard.

Graeme’s gut clenched at the ramifications.

Ramsay would seek to charm her, believing he could manipulate her natural energy to aid his grasping, power-hungry schemes.

Graeme set down his pail and rolled his shoulders. He also flexed his fingers, shaking off all negative thoughts. He’d deal with Ramsay later. So far, the oily bastard was all glare and bluster. And only when he suspected no one but Graeme saw.

If he touched the American...

Graeme closed his eyes, willing the thought from his mind before it could create an image. He wouldn’t be putting his hands on her, either, much as he’d like to. He would look out for her as long as she lingered in Pennard, a visit he hoped would be of short duration.

And if he meant to do that, he needed to keep his wits. He couldn’t be distracted by Ramsay’s hooligans skulking about his property.

So he took a deep, cleansing breath and turned to the open sea. Closing his eyes, he stood with his legs apart and ground his feet firmly into the loose stones. That done, he raised his arms above his head, opening himself to the elemental energies he needed to balance his powers.

He allowed his hands to stretch for the sky, his fingers already tingling, as if he touched the heavens. His feet warmed, welcoming the connection to Mother Earth’s heart, beating so deep beneath him. Awareness poured into him, strong and potent, a river of molten heat sweeping his body as the distance between the manifest and unseen world began to close. Only then did he center himself.

His eyes still shut, he delved deep into the earth’s inner core for the intense white-light energy he needed. He summoned the same power from high above him, hardly breathing until he felt both energy sources flow together, surging and fusing inside him.

At last, he opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the dark, rolling sea as he lowered his arms. As he’d done so often, he let the energy gather in his hands and then flow from his fingers to fill the little cave and the curving strip of shore.

With all the knowledge he possessed, he willed the summoned power to cleanse and neutralize any negative energy around him and his home.

This tiny corner of Pennard that was so needful of his protection.

Would that he could expand his boundary shields all up and down the coast. But even good energy could turn bad if sent out without permission.

It had to be enough to guard these shores.

The Keel...

There he could expend his fullest powers.

So he retrieved his pail and went to the sea’s edge, collecting a bucketful of the energy-charged water. Slippery, weed-draped rocks where the swell washed ashore and clumps of the glistening wrack also littered the tideline. This kelp and sea grass he also gathered. Though he took only what he could carry in one hand.

The Keel was a small cottage.

Glancing that way, he was relieved to see that Jock hadn’t left the stoop. Though he must’ve gone inside the cottage at some point during Graeme’s summoning, because the door now stood more than a little ajar. Jock was adept at opening doors, latched, knobbed, or otherwise, as long as the door wasn’t locked.

He also had a penchant for sneaking treats from the kitchen cupboard when Graeme wasn’t around. Jock’s present air of exaggerated innocence warned that that particular habit was the reason for the half-opened door.

But Graeme would deal with Jock’s overeating later.

Just now, he turned back to the sea, thanking the elements for the blessings they’d given him and releasing any excess energy back whence it’d come.

He kept only the charged water and sea tangle.

These he’d use to place a protective shield around his house and property, warding against the intrusion of anything negative or evil.

Hoping to take advantage of the evening quiet—Pennard residents were known for their curiosity, but most would now be gathered at the Laughing Gull—he left the little strand and crossed to the landward side of the road where the Keel awaited him.

He skirted Kendra Chase’s car, not even glancing at it, lest thoughts of her rushed into his mind. Her essence still clung to the vehicle, humming in the air. His heart thudded, proving how easily she’d captivated him.

She could make him forget time and duty.

Even now, he could imagine claiming her mouth with his, threading the fingers of one hand in her hair as he kissed her, and using his other hand to whip off her bulky, waxed jacket, revealing the woman beneath.

Graeme fought back a scowl, pushing her from his thoughts.

This was no time for such intrusions.

And that’s exactly what she was.

Before he lost his concentration entirely, he walked back to the barrel shed and removed the withered bundle of seaweed tacked above the door, and replaced it with a few strands of the fresh sea wrack.

He also set down the pail and dipped his hand into the cold water, flicking droplets onto the shed’s ancient, salt-crusted wood.

“By my will and the powers of all worlds, no darkness may tread here.” He stepped around the shed, going sunwise, and spoke shielding words as he trailed a line of water along the foot of the cliff behind his house. “Only those I wish to see may cross this boundary. Blessed be this place and those welcome here.” He circled around the cottage’s far corner, replacing old seaweed with new and dabbing water along the windowsills. “Nothing evil can touch these walls and those within.”

Almost finished, he reached the front of his house and stepped back onto the road. Setting down the pail beside his blue-painted bench, he scooped up a handful of the seawater and flung the droplets above and beneath the cottage’s blue- rimmed windows.

“No harm will come to this good and blessed place.” He took a breath, vowing not to let more than a month pass before he renewed the boundary ward.

To complete the blessing, he poured a thin line of water along the edge of the road, a necessity because Pennard’s single row of seafront houses all opened directly onto Harbour Street’s pavement.

“And I”—he’d almost emptied the pail—“will continue to guard this property to the best of my ability in all the days to come.”

It was only when he returned to the front door, expecting to have to cajole Jock into moving aside so he could dash the remaining water at the door lintel, that he noticed the dog was gone.

Sure Jock had gone looking for another tasty, normally off-limits tidbit, Graeme finished the warding. He was just reaching to fix the last of the seaweed above the lintel when the dog popped his head around the door, peering out from the shadows of the entry.

It was a stealthy move.

And the cunning in Jock’s eyes made Graeme instantly suspicious.

He flashed a look at the dog as he worked the sea wrack around the two hooks that held it in place. “What are you about, laddie?”

“What are you about?” Kendra Chase appeared in the doorway, ducking beneath his raised arm to step out onto the stoop.

Graeme blinked, furious to have been caught unawares.

“What are you doing here?” He tossed the question back at her. “How did you get into my house?”

He could well guess.

His dog, the traitorous beast, proved his guilt by slinking back into the cottage’s darkened entry hall.

A place he hoped Kendra hadn’t spent too much time.

“Why are you putting seaweed above your door?” She eyed the dripping strands of wrack.

“I asked what you’re doing here.” Graeme spoke more harshly than he’d intended.

But his hand seemed frozen where it was, his fingers hovering over the seaweed he’d just threaded around the lintel hooks.

He knew he looked ridiculous.

He also had the distinct impression she’d seen him cross the road from the little strand. That somehow she’d read his face when he’d passed her car, and picked up the thoughts that had rushed him.

Thoughts he had no business harboring about her.

“Well?” She flicked another glance at his hand, still raised above his head.

“It’s an old Aberdeenshire tradition.” Graeme thought fast. “Fisher folk believe that a bit o’ tangle above the door keeps out the tidewater if a storm sends the seas surging up and o’er the road.”

To his shame, her eyes lit. “O-o-oh, I love that.”

“Humph.” Graeme refused to deepen the lie by commenting.

He did lower his arm. He also stepped away from her, not liking how her scent wafted beneath his nose, distracting and enchanting him.

Everything about her did things to him, much to his annoyance.

He turned to face the sea, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “People hereabouts have many uses for seaweed. It’s used for fertilizer, as food when times are hard, for healing, and in legend.”

That was true enough.

“Folklore fascinates me.” Her voice took on a tone of wonder, making him feel even worse for having just invented the wisdom. “It’s such age-old beliefs that make Scotland so much more romantic than the States.”

“You came for your car.” It was the only plausible reason for her to be here. And yet—he shouldn’t go down this road—despite everything, he wished she’d come to see him.

“I did, yes.” She didn’t deny it, her voice oddly businesslike now. “I wanted to stretch my legs after the drive, and there seemed no point in expecting you to bring the car to the inn.

“Not”—she tucked her hair behind an ear, her smile cutting straight to his heart—“when I was out walking right past here, anyway. Jock was on the stoop and?—”

“He let you in.” Graham was sure of it.

“I did mean to knock.” A becoming wash of pink bloomed on her cheeks. “I called out, but when you didn’t answer, Jock nudged open the door and trotted inside as if I should follow him. He kept stopping and looking back, wagging his tail. Of course, I?—”

“Were you in there long?” Graeme thanked the Powers that his dog hadn’t yet discovered how to turn on lights.

“Only a moment.” Kendra tightened her jacket against the wind.

“Aye, right then.” Relief swept Graeme. “Your car keys are just inside the lounge. I’ll fetch them, and you can be on your way.”

Rude as it seemed, he didn’t invite her in.

The reasons peered at him from an endless assortment of wall-mounted picture frames as he strode purposely down the cottage’s entry hall toward the door that opened into his lounge.

A motley collection, the frames were everything from age-worn wood to silver, some of those tarnished. And each held a different picture. Some were quite blurry, sepia prints dating as far back as 1857. Others were clearer, packing a greater emotional punch because the canines caught on film were easier to recognize.

The photographs lined both sides of the entry. Nearly every imaginable breed had a place. Scottish deerhounds; Great Danes; Irish wolfhounds; innumerable terriers of all sizes; dachshunds; Labs, black and golden; and far too many mongrels to count. Dogs of all ages who, if viewed by someone with their heart in the right place and a sharp sense of observance, appeared to have the same eyes.

Even more startling, a small brass plate fixed to the bottom of each picture frame revealed that every dog bore the name Jock.

Only Jock was missing.

And Graeme dreaded the day his good friend would join the others.

Though he knew such a parting wouldn’t last long.

He also knew he didn’t want Kendra Chase stepping into the entry hall and chancing to study the photographs. If—his gut twisted—she hadn’t already done so.

She struck him as the sort who’d notice the dogs’ eyes.

And once she did...

Frowning, Graeme stepped into his lounge and snatched her car keys off the lamp table by the door. Jock lay sprawled on his plaid before the hearth fire, feigning innocence as he did so well.

It was a talent he’d perfected.

He’d certainly had enough time to do so.

And thinking about time and its passing was one very good reason for Graeme to avoid thinking about kissing the delectable American tourist waiting on his door stoop.

He also flashed an irritated glance at his dog. “Your false innocence doesn’t fool me.” He kept his voice low, not wanting Kendra to hear.

He knew Jock did because the dog’s ear twitched.

“I dinnae need a woman in my life. And”—he paused before the lounge door—“your tricks to push thon lassie beneath my nose won’t serve anything. She’ll be gone in a few days, away to her America, where she belongs.”

On his plaid before the hearth fire, Jock cracked one eye.

It was a look Graeme knew well.

And every time he’d seen it, Jock had won.

“No’ this time, laddie.” Graeme tightened his grip on the car keys and strode back down the entry hall, eager to place the keys in Kendra’s hand.

The sooner she left here, the better.

Meantime, he would look out for her from afar.

But something told him it would be a very long time before he could forget Kendra Chase.

Worst of all, he didn’t want to forget her.