Awaken the Highland Warrior (4 page)

His fingers were sifting through her hair when she woke. She gasped but didn’t move, just watched him with wide, wary eyes as her hand tightened around his dirk. He wished it were tight around something else. He let her hair fall but stayed where he was, inches away, neither of them uttering a sound.

She glanced at his groin, level with her face, and he sensed her pulse quicken, her skin growing warm. He wanted to be inside her, so deep they were one. He reached for her again, and a flicker of panic crossed her face. Some vestige of control hovered within reach. He made a desperate grab for it, knowing if he didn’t, he’d do something unforgivable.

Turning, he rushed from the room and found himself in a parlor with chairs and tables and some other things he didn’t recognize. It was lit by a strange lamp near the door. He sat on a chair, heedless of his nakedness, and gulped in air.

What was happening to him? In his twenty-seven years, he’d never hurt a female. He’d always defended them. Would he have taken one against her will? How could he even think about a woman after what he’d lost? He shouldn’t be thinking of women at all. It was against the rules.

A throat cleared from the doorway. She stood there, eyes averted, his clothes in her hand. He started to stand, but figured manners wouldn’t count if he was naked.

“It’s almost six. You’ll need to eat. I washed your clothes last night. You can clean up there.” She pointed to a door down the hall. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” She put his things on the floor and left.

He stared at her retreating back. What kind of woman gave hospitality to a man who’d done what he had? He was surprised she hadn’t stabbed him with his own dirk, or worse, he thought, looking at his naked body, still aroused. The women of his day would’ve fainted dead away or had him jailed. If she had a husband, he’d probably kill Faelan before he regained his strength and save Druan the trouble. Perhaps she was a prostitute. Or did she play a deadlier game? He needed some distance from her so he could think. And he needed to piss.

He could hear—and smell—her near the back of the house. He dressed and put on the boots he’d bought from a young soldier after he wore a hole in his own. Passing boxes shoved against the wall, he made his way to the front door. Was she moving out or in? Outside, he focused his vision to the darkness and moved around back. He could see a graveyard and the outline of a crumbling church. It looked like the old chapel near the Wood place. It had been a bit rough, but not in ruins.

Why would Druan put the time vault in a graveyard? Faelan needed to find his clan, but he had no means of traveling to Scotland. Other than his talisman and his dirk, he had nothing. No coin. No horse. No sword. He listened to the birds greeting the morning and considered his options. Getting to Scotland wasn’t possible now. He could take to the woods or find a nearby town and try to blend in while he asked around. But more than a century had passed. Everyone who’d lived then would be dead.

Feeling the pressure of a full bladder, he looked for a privy. All he found was an old tool shed. Moving around to the side, he lifted his kilt. He’d just finished when the birds hushed their singing. A prickle ran up his back. He shook off, dropped the front of his kilt, and scanned the wood line. He couldn’t see it, but he could sense it. Something was out here. Maybe an animal. Maybe not.

What if she’d stumbled on him by accident? If so, she’d unleashed the gates of hell in her own backyard. Her blood would be on his head. If he stayed, he could find out who she was. If she was helping Druan, she would have to be killed, but first she would lead him to the demon.

In the meantime, something had to be done about this burning he felt for her. He’d spent years honing his self-discipline, but this went beyond lust. His stomach rumbled. She’d offered food, and he was near famished. Perhaps he could distract himself from one appetite by feeding the other.

He watched the woods a minute longer and then slipped around to the front door. The smell of food cooking made his stomach growl again as he made his way to the room where she’d told him to clean up. He opened the door and found another shock, this one pleasant. He spent ten minutes pushing buttons and turning knobs until he figured out how to make the water flow out of the wall. He picked up a square cake and sniffed. Flowers. Was this soap? He didn’t relish smelling like a flower, but it was better than mud and sweat. The warm water rolling over his body like a gentle rainfall was an unexpected pleasure, as was the soft cloth he dried himself on.

He dreaded facing her after acting like an animal, but it was that or sleep in the woods, and whatever she was cooking smelled bloody good. After dressing once again in his clean clothes, he followed his nose to the kitchen. At least he thought it was a kitchen. The room was large, with old wooden floors covered by colorful rugs. A big oak table sat in the center. But there were things here he’d never seen in a kitchen, such as a woman in trousers.

She took a container of something that looked like milk out of a tall, white box and reached for a glass, leaving a strip of skin bare at her waist. He could already see every curve of her body. There was a name written on a wee square, right at the top of her arse. Levi Strauss. Was this some sort of family crest? Unusual place to display it.

Her arms were bare, along with most of her shoulders, and if he looked hard enough, he could see the swell of her breasts. Her skin was smooth and creamy, all over, as far as he could tell. And there was a lot of it to see. Did all women dress this way now?

His body started to harden. Damnation. He’d just gotten it down. He shifted his sporran and cleared his throat.

She pulled in a quick breath and turned, thick hair swinging around her shoulders. Their gazes locked and held. It was powerful, this feeling. Did she sense it? A flash of fear showed in her eyes, and he remembered who she might be. If so, she’d do well to fear him. Then he saw the scrape on her cheek and the thin line marring her throat… from his dirk. If her unlikely story was true, he’d come close to killing an innocent woman. If it wasn’t, the next time, he wouldn’t fail.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said, swallowing nervously, forcing a smile.

Whatever else she was, she was brave. Faelan smiled in return, but it felt like a sneer.

“I’m Bree,” she said. “You must be starving.”

He stifled a growl. She had no idea.

***

“I hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” Bree said as Faelan drained his glass of milk without stopping to breathe. He frowned at it, discreetly sniffed, and then wiped a drop from his chin. Milk in his day wouldn’t have been pasteurized or two percent, just straight from the cow.

He stuck his fork in the scrambled eggs and shoveled a bite into his mouth.

“It’s hot—”

His eyes widened. He took a gulp of milk and did it all over again. Burning hot food, cold milk. It sounded like he moaned, but there wasn’t enough room in his mouth for the sound. She studied him as he ate, not surprised he looked even better in daylight. Just her luck. She was avoiding men like poison ivy, and she’d condemned herself to solitary confinement with the sexiest man alive. Or dead?

“So you’ve decided I’m not a ghost?” he asked, smothering a quiet burp behind his napkin.

“I don’t think a ghost could eat this much.” She wasn’t sure about demons.

“My manners aren’t usually so poor, but I don’t recall ever being so hungry.” Faelan glanced at her breasts and knocked a biscuit onto the floor. He picked it up, blew on it, and stuffed half in his mouth. “I haven’t thanked you properly,” he said after he’d swallowed. “For freeing me, the bed, food. I didn’t expect hospitality.” A half smile touched his lips, making her insides twitch like she’d been hit by a stun gun.

He was gorgeous. And his voice. She took a breath and tried to gather her wits. He was a puzzle to solve, not a potential boyfriend. “I couldn’t let you starve.” Or she’d never find out who he was. She’d tried searching for the Connor clan, but her computer wasn’t cooperating.

If she truly believed he had amnesia, she’d mention the name and see if it jogged his memory, but she suspected he knew exactly who he was, and he was trying hard to hide it from her. And if he was the demon, and thought she knew too much, he might kill her and be done with it, which probably made her the stupidest woman alive for bringing him inside, but what kind of historian would toss out a living, breathing, walking history book?

“I’m indebted to you,” he said, spearing a chunk of fresh pineapple with a small knife, popping it in his mouth. “I have nothing. Not even a horse.”

A horse? She bit back a smile. The only payment she wanted was answers. “So you still have no idea who you are or how you got inside the chest?”

He shook his head, his mouth too full to answer.

“You must remember some snippet of something. Children? A wife?” If Alana was his wife, did that kiss count as cheating?

“I wasn’t… I don’t think I was married.” He licked his lips, drawing Bree’s attention to his mouth.

“Brothers? Sisters?”

He shook his head, the movement so small it could have been a tic. If she hadn’t been watching his mouth, she would’ve missed the flicker of anguish that tightened his face.

“We should tell someone. We could put up pictures of you, see if someone recognizes—”

“No.” He banged his glass on the table and leaned forward, his face rigid. “You can’t tell anyone about me. No one.”

“You’ve remembered something?”

“No. It’s just a precaution.”

“You know your first name but not why you need all this secrecy?”

His brows flattened. “I only remember that one thing.”

“And someone named Druan.”

Faelan went still, staring at her as if she’d asked him when he last had sex. “It’s all muddled,” he said and attacked his food again.

“And that you needed to keep the disk safe.”

He stopped chewing and scowled at her.

“And you called the chest a time vault. That’s a lot of memories for someone who doesn’t have any.”

He gave her a glare that curdled the sip of milk she’d drunk. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice almost a snarl.

“I told you who I am.”

“How do I know you tell the truth?”

“I can show you my driver’s license.”

“What’s a driver’s license?”

His memory loss might be real, but he wouldn’t forget what a driver’s license was. “It means
I’m
not lying. I can prove who I am.” She raised her head and looked him dead in the eye. She didn’t want to accuse him, but she needed answers. There was a slim chance he was just a thief, but she’d bet her Mustang he’d been in the crypt longer than she’d been alive.

He stared back, neither of them blinking, then he let out a breath and picked up his fork. “You ask a lot of questions.”

If she had a penny for all the times she’d heard that, she’d never have to work again.

“I appreciate all you’ve done,” Faelan said, his voice sexy again. “But until things are clear I’ll ask you to keep this quiet.”

He wasn’t
asking
anything, but she let it slide. It was going to take patience to earn his trust. Lots of patience. Bree had lots of things. Too much of some. Patience wasn’t one of them.

“Does your husband work with horses?” he asked as if the distressing conversation had never taken place.

“Horses?”

“I saw them on your family crest. Is Levi Strauss your husband?”

“Levi? Oh, no, I’m not married.”

“You let a man who’s not your husband put his name on your ar… backside?”

“It’s a brand.”

“Brand?” He looked confused.

“A label. The name of the person who made the jeans.”

“Jeans?” he asked, then his face went blank, as if he knew he’d revealed too much.

“Denim. Dungarees.” Bree felt another shiver of excitement at his ignorance. More evidence that he was old.

“So you live here alone? There’s no male here to take care of the place? To protect you?”

“Do I need protection?” She’d hidden his dagger in one of her boots, and Grandpa’s old gun was here somewhere. Not that it would help; warrior or demon, Faelan probably knew a hundred ways to kill her with his bare hands.

He speared another chunk of pineapple. “Don’t all women?”

Bree put a hand to her throat and stared at the knife, remembering the crazed look in his eyes as he leapt from the vault.

“But my brother… uh, Biff, Big Biff, I call him, because he’s so big. And strong. He stops by sometimes. A lot. Probably tomorrow.”

Faelan’s shoulders stiffened. “Tomorrow?” He glanced at the door, his body tense as an arrow ready to fly. He’d be gone before lunch if she didn’t intervene.

“I forgot. He’s not coming until next week.”

He relaxed, but still watched her closely. “You never explained how you found me, where you got the key.”

“The disk? My great-great-grandmother Isabel found it when they were building the house. She hung it on the mantel for luck. Of course, no one knew it was a key.” She and her cousins had made up stories about it. She’d secretly believed it opened a time portal. If the book in the attic was right, her theory wasn’t far off.

“You did.” His tone was accusing.

Not until last night, when her fingers touched the grooves on the chest and she’d clearly seen the disk in her mind. How could she explain that or the words that had brushed her ear as the disk turned in the lock? “The opening on the vault had the same shape, the same grooves, and it’s made of the same metal.”

He grunted his disbelief. “What about this map you mentioned?”

“I found it in a trunk in the attic. There was a riddle on it.”

“What kind of riddle?”

“‘It lies hidden close to God, in a place where evil can’t trod.’
That’s what it said. Then I read in Isabel’s journal that a man came by in the 1800s searching for lost treasure, and I’ve always figured anything worth hiding is worth finding—”

“He came here?”

“His name was McGowan. He was murdered before he found what he was looking for.”

“Murdered?” Faelan asked.