Awaken the Highland Warrior (26 page)

Before she’d hidden the book, she’d drawn her protector’s eyes.

Bree awoke to yells and the clash of metal. A battle! She bounded out of bed. Had the demons found them? She ran to the window overlooking a fenced area she thought was a riding ring. There were no horses. There were warriors, at least a dozen of them, practicing in the late morning mist hanging over the meadow. Most of the sparring men were dressed in kilts. Some fought with swords, lunging and sidestepping, others hand-to-hand combat.

Ronan stood bare-chested, holding a bow. He pulled an arrow from a quiver belted on his kilt. There was no way he could hit the target. It was a hundred yards away. He nocked the arrow and drew back, held for a second, then released. The arrow hit dead center of the bull’s-eye. Cripes. Robin Hood had nothing on this guy.

Her gaze shifted, and she saw Faelan standing off to one side, a sword pointed to the sky. Like the others, he wore no shirt. Even this far away, she could see the muscles in his arms and back tense as the sword lowered and his body began to move in that flowing rhythm of power and grace. Poetry in motion.

She pulled herself from her stupor, gave her teeth a quick brushing, threw her hair into a ponytail, and left wearing wrinkled jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt. Over the cries and clash of metal, Bree heard more familiar sounds. The clink of dishes and pans accompanied Coira humming a tune. Breakfast smells filled the hall, stronger as Bree neared the kitchen. Coira was setting a buffet with the usual fare and others Bree didn’t recognize.

“Good morning. I hope the noise didn’t wake you.”

“Do they always do this?”

“They have to stay ready for battle. You get used to it after a while.”

“They look… amazing. I saw Ronan with a bow.”

“No one can beat him at archery. He’s almost a legend, like our Faelan,” she added. “Do you want some breakfast? We eat late when they’re practicing.”

“Maybe in a bit. I think I’ll wander outside.”

Coira smiled. “It is an impressive display. All those braw lads. Oh, I remember when Sean was young.” She patted her heart and sighed. “My, my.”

Bree laughed with her and walked outside. The sounds grew louder and the testosterone thicker as she approached the field. Sorcha wasn’t there. Faelan must have worn her out. Bree paused to watch Jamie throw Brodie onto his back, relieved to see he wore underwear beneath his kilt. “That’ll teach you to fight wearing a skirt,” Jamie teased. Brodie shot up and grabbed Jamie around the knees, and they both went down.

Faelan was still in the same spot, sparring now with Cody, who, like Jamie, wore jeans. The men circled each other like big cats, swords extended, movements controlled, precise. Metal clashed as the blades met, muscles shifting with each clang. Then, Faelan whirled and lunged, knocking Cody’s sword from his hand.

“The Mighty Faelan lives,” Cody said, retrieving his sword.

Faelan grinned and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm.

Just a show of teeth, and Bree’s knees turned to water. She looked away before she forgot how angry she was.

At the back of the field, Tomas was fighting hand-to-hand with Anna. She flipped him over her head, landed behind him, and kicked out, catching him in the back of the knees. Bree grinned and wandered over to a table holding an assortment of weapons; knives, daggers, the bow Ronan had used, and a wicked-looking crossbow. A target was set up against several bales of hay.

She idly picked up a dagger, testing it in her hand. It felt like a crowbar, not an extension of her arm. She made sure no one was watching, drew back her arm, and let the dagger fly. It sailed over the target, and she heard a curse.

Ronan stepped out, chest glistening above his kilt, hair damp with sweat. He held the dagger in his hand. His bandage was gone and the gash was almost healed. “If you need more practice bandaging wounds, just ask, darlin’. In fact, if you feel the need to practice anything at all…”

“Sorry about the dagger.”

“You’re holding it wrong.” Ronan moved behind her and placed the dagger in her hand.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Please,” he whispered. “I’m trying to look busy. I had only two hours’ sleep. Niall’s killing me.” He put one hand on hers, pulling it back, slow and smooth. The heat from his body seeped through her, though the morning was cool. “Now, release, with your wrist like this.” He demonstrated with his left hand. They practiced the move a few more times, Bree doing exactly as he said. As she released the dagger, she caught sight of Faelan coming toward them, face set like one of Druan’s gargoyles. The dagger flew over the target a second time.

Niall stepped from behind it. “You throw like a lass.” He turned the dagger sideways, tossing it to Ronan. “You hiding from me?” Niall asked, folding thick arms over his chest. His legs looked like tree trunks sticking out of his kilt. He had to be over six and a half feet tall, the only warrior she’d seen with a hairy chest.

“No.” Ronan gave Bree a warning nudge.

“Sorry,” Bree said. “I threw the dagger. Ronan’s trying to show me how to do it, but it’s not working like it did before.” She frowned and looked at her hand. “When I killed that halfling, it felt different, like the dagger was part of my arm.”

“You killed a halfling?” Ronan said.

“Faelan was fighting off a bunch of them after rescuing me. They had him trapped. I knew he was going to die, and I had his dagger.” She shuddered, thinking how close the blade had come to his head. “I threw it at the one holding him. Hit him smack in the chest, and poof, he was gone.”

Both warriors went slack-jawed. “The halfling disappeared?” Ronan said.

“Impossible,” Niall muttered.

“It is?”

Ronan shook his head. “You said you saw the light from Faelan’s talisman, but I didn’t know—”

“She watched an engaged talisman?” Niall put his hand over his massive chest, his expression wavering between horror and shock.

Faelan approached. “I need to talk to Bree,” he said, addressing Ronan and Niall.

Still looking dazed, Ronan raised a questioning brow at her. When she nodded, he nudged Niall, and they walked away.

“How the hell could she…” Niall’s words faded as they moved toward the fence. She could see their animated gestures and puzzled stares and knew they were talking about her.

“We need to talk,” Faelan said, his voice expressionless.

She stared at the trickle of sweat running like a lazy river between his battle marks. She wished he’d worn a shirt with his kilt. She wanted to tell him what she’d discovered in the drawings, but she was too angry. “I don’t,” she said and turned away. Ronan and Niall pretended to study the warriors still sparring on the field.

Faelan moved in front of her, gripping her arm, his features like his voice, recognizable but fake, as if he wore a mask of himself. “I shouldn’t have jumped you like I did.”

“Are you referring to last night or the night before?”

“Both.”

Now he was going to tell her it shouldn’t have happened. She knew it shouldn’t, but she didn’t want to hear it from him. She pulled her arm back and tried to step around him, but he stopped her again.

“When I saw you with Ronan—no matter, I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to you in the last day or so, but—”

“Cut the crap. I woke up alone, cleaned up the sticky mess
you
left,” she said, jabbing his chest, “and you don’t even bother to say hello or thank you. Go find Sorcha and leave me alone.”

Ronan and Niall weren’t even pretending to watch the field now.

Faelan trapped her hand in his. “Bree, listen to me. Angus is dead. I just found out.” Faelan’s face was real now, somber.

Bree’s fingers tightened on his. “Dead? No.” She pulled away, walked a few steps, and slumped against a maple tree, watching a dying leaf float to the ground. She’d killed Angus. She hadn’t warned him, and now he was dead. She wanted to lean into Faelan, feel his heart pounding, safe. For now.

“I think it would be best if you left.”

She looked up. “What?”

“I want you to leave here,” he said, the mask back in place.

Leave? The idea made a few passes around her head, looking for a place to land. He was dumping her. Bree was familiar with dumping. She’d dumped and been dumped, but it had never made her feel like her lungs had been pureed. It wasn’t that she’d awakened him and helped him fit into his new world or fed and clothed him when she should’ve had him arrested. Or that she’d lent him money and turned him loose in her Mustang. She’d put her life in his hands. Given him her body, her heart, and he was throwing her out of Scotland. Out of his life.

“You should be away from this. It’s too dangerous. Go someplace safe, maybe your mother’s.”

In male speak it meant he didn’t need the guilt of seeing his folly every time he bumped into her. He’d known all along she wasn’t a suitable mate, but now he had Sorcha to quench his lust.

She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, hoping he thought she was upset over Angus. Sorcha walked across the grass carrying her sword, but stopped when she caught sight of them. Bree moved past Faelan, holding her head high, and past Sorcha, who watched with an inscrutable look on her face. Bree had to get away from this place. Away from him. Every man in her life had let her down, even her dad, although dying hadn’t been his fault.

No. Not every man.

There was still one she could count on.

***

Faelan stood outside Bree’s door, sweat running down his chest. He’d tried sparring with Brodie to work off his frustration, but it hadn’t helped. He had to make her understand. He raised his hand to knock and flinched as something crashed inside. It was followed by cursing and a flurry of banging and stomping.

“What time does your flight leave?” a male voice asked. Faelan felt the doorknob dig into his palm. What the hell was Ronan doing in Bree’s room?

“Six a.m. I’ll get a room for tonight,” Bree’s muffled voice said.

“You want me to come with you?”

Come with her? Faelan pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear her response. All he heard was a smacking sound. Was that bastard kissing her?

Faelan flung open the door. It bounced against the wall and almost smacked him in the face when he charged inside. Ronan was half naked, as usual, and there wasn’t an inch between him and Bree. Both of them turned, and Bree’s face frosted over. She stood on tiptoe, gave Ronan a kiss on the cheek, and snatched her suitcase.

“Thank you, Ronan, for everything. I’ll call you later.” She stalked past Faelan, her eyes liquid with pain.

For
everything
? What had he bloody given her? Faelan stared at Bree’s retreating back and Ronan with his arms crossed, eyes hard. Faelan wanted her to leave, but not like this. He hurried after her. He’d throw Ronan out a window later.

Faelan raced down the opposite hall, shoving past several warriors who looked up in surprise. Rounding a corner, he ran into Conall, the young warrior he’d practiced with earlier. “I need your help.”

After a hurried conversation, Faelan followed Bree outside to where Anna’s car was waiting. “Let me carry that.” He reached for her suitcase and she whirled, eyes ablaze. The corner of the case grazed his groin, and he grunted, doubling over as she turned and stomped to the car. He hobbled after her. “Wait, we have to talk,” he wheezed.

Bree flung her luggage inside Anna’s car. “Talk.” Her expression was dour, as if she’d been sucking lemons. “You lie to me, treat me like a leper, and now you want to talk? You’re just like those demons you hunt. A handsome form hiding a troll. I risked my life for you, fed you, clothed you, tended your wounds. I found your family. I gave you everything I had to offer, and you shoved it all back in my face. There’s nothing left to say.”

She climbed in the car and slammed the door. Anna, standing by the driver’s door, gave him a cool stare and got in. The car sped down the driveway, leaving Faelan standing there holding his groin. He was still there when Conall’s car rolled by.

A troll? She’d called him a troll? He turned and saw the flash of faces disappear from the window behind him and warriors watching from the field. “Mule-headed woman.” He started toward the stable. Horses didn’t nag or bombard a man with hundreds of questions and look at him with accusing eyes that wrapped his heart in layers of guilt.

“You gonna let her go?” Ronan asked, coming up behind Faelan. He’d put on a shirt, at least.

“Aye.” Faelan debated on knocking the scowl off Ronan’s face. Instead, he clenched his fists and trudged toward the stall of the black stallion that reminded him of Nandor.

“I could go with her. For protection,” Ronan said, his face hard. “Then meet you in Albany.”

Faelan turned and moved inches closer to the tall warrior. “She doesn’t need any more of your bloody
help.
Or anything else you have to offer.” He’d heard about Ronan’s exploits with the female sex. It appeared he was trying to add Bree to his list of conquests.

Ronan stepped forward, bringing them nose to nose. “She’s sure not getting anything from you. Everything she’s done for you, and you throw her out like yesterday’s trash. I don’t care if you are a legend. She deserves better than that.”

The horse skittered away, sensing the tension.

“I’m taking care of her,” Faelan said, moving to steady the stallion. Conall would keep an eye on her.

“What you’re doing is acting like an ass. She spent last night in a chair because you were in her bed.”

“I’ll wager you had a solution.”

“What if I did? Unless she’s your mate, you have no say in the matter. And you sure as hell have no say over where I sleep.”

Faelan knew if he didn’t leave now, one of them would end up on the floor. He opened the door to the stall. “I’m going for a ride before I do something
you’ll
regret.” His groin still ached, but it would serve as a reminder that women and warriors didn’t mix.

“I liked you better when you were in the time vault.” Ronan punched the stable wall and walked away.

Faelan stayed out all day, riding the horses, grooming the horses, complaining to the horses. He watched the moon rise and considered waiting for the sun, anything to keep him away from family members and warriors who kept popping around corners and out from behind trees like jack rabbits, their dark looks heaping on the guilt.