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Even though Cain claimed to be from the area, Grayson could find no records of anyone by that name ever having lived there. Cain had convinced the locals he was one of their own, by means of magic, no doubt. It was the thing above all others that made Grayson mistrustful and afraid for the honest practitioners of the craft in the villages along the coast.
“I know enough,” she said, defensively.
Momentarily, he felt pity for her. “I’m afraid it’s true. Sorry, sweetheart, you’re in with a bad crowd.”
She didn’t respond well to his sympathy. That would be his knack with women coming into play again, he mused, as her expression turned.
Her foot went onto the first step, closing on the threshold. Grayson watched with interest. Behind her, the waves lifted, crashing over the sea wall. She glanced back, her attention momentarily drawn by the noise, but she was so riled by what he said that she didn’t think about it long enough to notice anything unusual and continued to rant at him as she took step two and three in quick succession. The second wave rose and crashed, quickly followed by the third, at over five feet high.
By the time she’d reached the actual threshold, she was drenched. The power of the water knocked her briefly forward into his arms, before sucking her back out of the house.
She screamed in outrage as she stumbled down the steps, her face flushing over her less than elegant retreat. Her clothes were wet through and stuck to her, her hair dripping.
She wiped her cheeks, and then peeled her hair back from her eyes. “A boundary spell? How dare you, you bastard!”
Grayson dropped the junk mail into the puddle on the hall carpet, watching as it soaked up the damp patch, before he re-engaged his attention with her.
It was such a shame that she was screwing her face up like that. She could so easily be an attractive woman—if she weren’t hanging out with the wrong crowd—and she was a gifted young witch. But the venom oozing from her every pore right at that moment was tangible.
“I only returned the favor you and your master bestowed on me,” he replied. “Except that my boundary spell actually works on you, whereas yours…”
He opened his hands to the sky and shrugged.
“A boundary spell, what…to protect this dump? When the sea comes to wipe it away?” She gestured at the sea, in between squeezing out her hair. “It will come, and this is the last house on the lane. It will soon be dropping into the sea, right where you deserve to be.”
The last house in Carbrey, or the first of the villages along the coast? He didn’t say it aloud, but he thought it.
The cornerstone cottage was here and his because he would not let the gentle and more caring practitioners of the craft that lived along this coast be infected by the rotten apple at Carbrey’s heart.
Mistrust and anger burned in her eyes. “You are not one of ours, Grayson, and you are not welcome here. The sooner you realize that the better.”
“I suggest you canvas all the villagers for their opinion before you speak on everyone’s behalf. Besides, how long has Cain Davot truly been ‘one of yours’?”
Mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and her wet hair hung in black strings, making her look even more like a Goth diva than she usually did.
Her eyes flickered. “I hope the sea washes this place away and you with it.”
“I’m sure you’ll be the first to know, if it ever happens…seeing as you’ve got your finger on the pulse and all.”
He was gratified to see the flash of doubt on her face, however brief, before she turned on her heel and flounced off.
He couldn’t even begin to hope that the doubt he saw in her would take hold and result in a change of heart, not when Cain was in the background making promises. But he had a feeling things were coming to a head in Carbrey, and Elspeth would be one of many who finally saw Cain for what he truly was.
Zoë frowned as she parked her car outside Her Haven. She’d done something she never thought she would, with a man, down an alleyway. More to the point, she’d been sexually involved with two men—three if you counted the funny business with Cain—in less than twenty-four hours.
As she looked over at Grayson’s house guilt tinged her mood. She hadn’t meant to do anything with Crawford, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. What was happening to her? She’d never behaved quite so…wildly, before. Sea air. Had to be. She’d heard of it giving people an appetite. Maybe an “appetite” was actually a euphemism for “insatiable sex drive.” As she’d returned to the village relief had welled inside her. Despite all the spooky talk and the appearance of the ghost, it felt good to be back. Climbing out of the car she stared at the beautiful sea vista, filling her senses with it, and then she turned and looked at the house. A great sigh escaped her.
Okay, so the place had a history, and Grayson was right—she had to respect that, and she had to respect other people’s beliefs. And she had seen something, or somebody. Even before that had happened she’d felt something. It had been a presence, a sense of knowing who had been there in the house before her and what was important to them. That was an experience that she couldn’t deny. She should be afraid.
Was she?
A small part of her wanted to pack her case and drive back to London. I can’t, not now. Turning back to face the sea, she breathed in the air. She wasn’t ready to go into the house yet. Instead, she locked the car and walked along the lane to where it forked and the sign directed hikers and ramblers onto the coastal path.
Stubbornly, she pursued her original goal of hill walks and fresh air, and took the path, leaning into the wind that caught the brow of the hill. This was what she came for, an experience that was different to living in London and dealing with irate commuters and the daily chaos management at the office. The thought made her smile. Different? Yes, she was surely getting that. Everything that had happened to her so far was way, way different than what she was used to.
Here in the lowlands of Scotland she was far away from all that was normal to her, and it was beautiful. The rough grass that grew either side of the cliff path was long, thick, and bunched in hardy tufts, like no grass in London. Out to sea, the small island off the coast seemed to gleam in the sunlight. The old lighthouse that stood there caught her attention more than it had from the harbor. From this viewpoint she could see it better, and she watched it as she walked, using it as her focal point. It was disused, had to be. There was a new, more modern lighthouse nearer the harbor and in direct line with the marina. She wondered vaguely about its history as she hiked up the path.
The only sound was the crash of distant waves against the cliff side and the occasional gull swooping overhead. She was close to the village, and it was a good place to think. Inside, she felt torn. Part of her did want to go home to London, because this was all too weird. The other part wanted to bang on Grayson’s door and demand he make love to her and satisfy her again, the way he had the night before.
