Awaken the Highland Warrior Page 8

  “No, I’m good.” Bree scooted back, in case his Superman ears could hear her body begging. She tripped over his kilt again and sat hard on the floor.

  Faelan blinked, bent, and pulled her to her feet, the passion on his face giving way to self-disgust. “I’m sorry. You should ask me to leave. I would, you know.”

  She was torn between desire to bolt out the door and desire to comfort his tortured soul, rip that towel off, and throw him on the floor. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  His eyes flared.

  “I mean, you could see a doctor.”

  “A doctor? What would I tell him? That I crave you—like a starving man craves food? That I’m afraid to get within arm’s reach of the only woman in the universe who knows I’m alive, because I might lose control and rape her?” A muscle jumped in his jaw.

  It wouldn’t be rape. “There are medicines that can affect the sex drive. Herbal supplements. They’re always promising to increase things. Maybe they can decrease as well.”

  “Increase things?”

  “You know… enhance.”

  “Enhance?”

  She glanced at his groin, ineffectively covered by the towel. “The feeling. The parts.”

  “The parts?” His brows climbed higher. “Make it bigger?”

  How did she get into these conversations? “Maybe we should…” she hesitated.

  “What?” His eyes radiated hope and dread.

  “Would it help if you could… if you could get it out of your system?”

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

  “I mean really get it out of your system. With a woman.”

  He took a step forward. “Are you offering?”

  ***

  Faelan licked the edges, swirling his tongue closer to the center, so smooth, so slick, and the taste! He would slaughter ten demons for one taste. He slid the Caramel Delight container into the freezer and moved into the hall, ice cream cone in his hand; sustenance for his battle with Bree. She was leaving, she just didn’t know it yet. He would carry her down the driveway on foot if he had to. Her determination to stay was admirable, but there was a time to fight and a time to leave. This was the latter.

  The air stirred against his skin. His warrior senses kicked in. Hardheaded woman, she’d left a window open. It’d be a miracle if he managed to keep her alive until dark. He followed the breeze to the family room, stepping over boxes she’d been unpacking as he headed for the window. He was alarmed to see daylight nearly gone. He heard her voice and looked outside. She stood near the toolshed, her shirt loaded down with—he sniffed—apples. In the twilight, she looked pregnant. He puzzled over the odd warmth in his gut that wasn’t hunger. Then, he heard another voice. Male. He reached for his sword, cursed, and grabbed his talisman instead, ready to climb out the window, when he remembered her brother. He must have heard about the dead body. The man was an idiot to leave Bree unchaperoned. If he knew half the thoughts in Faelan’s head…

  Maybe her brother could persuade her to leave.

  “You know Jared,” the brother said, moving into view. “He was worried after the message you left.”

  Who in tarnation was Jared?

  “You split most of the wood,” the brother continued. “I’m impressed.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Bree glanced toward the house, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

  “You should have called. I would’ve done it for you. I’ll finish it up after we get back on site.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss next to Bree’s mouth, then drew her into a hug so tight Faelan’s dirk, wherever in blazes she’d hidden it, wouldn’t have fit between them.

  The cone in Faelan’s hand cracked. This was no brother. Was she courting someone? She didn’t act like a woman who belonged to a man, but clearly moral values had changed while he slept. Only a wife would have done what she had in the bathroom. Or someone who expected payment in return.

  Whoever the man was, he’d better get his hands and mouth off Bree. Faelan spun toward the door. His shoulder banged into a candlestick on the mantel, sending it and a loose photograph tumbling from the edge. His hands shot out to catch them. The cone went one way, the ice cream another, hitting the wall with a sloppy thump. He wedged the candlestick back into a hole he hoped it’d occupied and started to put the fallen photograph back. It was covered in ice cream. He wiped it on his shirt, and a face appeared, a dark-haired woman, her hairstyle and dress from another time. His time. Faelan’s head felt thick, and the first two ice cream cones he’d eaten lay in his stomach like a rock. He stared at the picture, knowing if the image wasn’t black and white, he’d see eyes as green as moss.

  As green as the first time he’d seen them.

  One hundred and fifty-one years ago.

  Chapter 9

  Faelan waited until Greg left the tavern before slipping outside. To his right, a carriage was unloading. A man with a limp climbed out, followed by a well-dressed young couple, newly married, judging by their intimate smiles. The woman wore a long green dress that matched her eyes. Faelan felt a strange pull, and it disturbed him. He didn’t lust after other men’s wives.

  The older man nodded to Faelan. “Fine day today.”

  “Not bad,” Faelan said, too distracted for pleasantries. He tipped his hat as the couple approached, and darned if the woman didn’t trip over the hem of her dress and drop her satchel at his feet. Good manners demanded he help. He and her husband gathered the scattered items, waiting as she crammed them back inside her bag.

  She flashed a grateful smile as Faelan handed her the last item, a heavy book engraved with a rose. Large, green eyes met his, and the smile slid from her face. She blanched, pulled her satchel close, and then turned away, hands shaking. The men nodded thanks, not noticing her reaction, and the three strangers walked inside.

  Faelan stared at the picture, his chest aching. Only a being with demon blood could remain nearly unchanged for more than a century. She must be a halfling. Was the man outside really a man? He wasn’t Druan; the form and hair coloring were wrong. But he could be working for Druan. Faelan raced for the door, still gripping the photograph. He ran into Bree, already on the porch. Her shirt was doubled up into a bumpy pouch. “Who was that?” he demanded, yanking her inside and slamming the door. Apples tumbled from her shirt and rolled across the floor.

  “That was Erik,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who’s Erik?” He put his hand on the door, in case she tried to run.

  “One of Jared’s men.”

  Erik, Jared. Was she surrounded by men? “Who’s Jared?”

  “My friend, the archeologist I told you about. What’s the matter with you?”

  What was the matter with him? He was stuck in a time he knew nothing about, dependent on a woman who was pretending to be human. “Tell me who you are and who sent you.” His hand tightened, crumpling the corner of the photograph.

  Her breath came fast, and he could smell her fear. “I don’t know what happened while I was outside, but you’re scaring me,” she said, shrinking against the door.

  “You’d do well to be scared. Explain this.” He thrust the photograph at her, but the phone rang. They both jumped, and the photograph fell. Bree tried to move, but Faelan put his hands on each side of the door, trapping her. The phone rang six more times as they stared at each other, neither one moving. He saw the fear drain from her eyes and fury take its place.

  “How dare you accuse me of anything when you’re the one walking around telling lies? Acting like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. If you were a real man, you wouldn’t be afraid to admit who you are.”

  He felt like Nandor had kicked him in the face. His honor had never been challenged by a human. The phone rang again. She stomped on his foot and did a quick squat, ducking under his arm so fast he would have been mortified if his brothers had seen. She grabbed the phone, her fiery gaze never leaving his. He was beginning to seriously dislike telephones.

  “Hello? H
i, Mom.”

  Mom? If she hadn’t stolen the clan’s book, then someone in her family must have. He eased closer to listen. His foot kicked an apple, rolling it under a chair.

  “Tell me, darling, is the house a disaster?” a woman said.

  “Actually, it’s coming along pretty well.”

  “You said your men won’t be back until next week. I was thinking I would come and help—”

  “No.”

  “Are you all right, Briana? You sound strange.”

  “I’m just out of breath. I’ve been gathering apples to make another pie.” She blasted Faelan with a withering glare, and he felt the last of his anger drain. She’d freed him from the time vault, offered him a bed and food, even baked him an apple pie, and he was acting worse than that Russell bastard. He’d witnessed her distress over his call. Halflings lied easily, but they were awkward with false emotions. And he’d never heard of one baking an apple pie and falling in holes. It was possible she only resembled the woman in the photograph or was related to her. According to her, the place had been in her family for generations. His gut told him she was innocent. His gut had said the same thing about Grog, though, and look where that had gotten him.

  “Now’s not a good time,” Bree said. “You know, your allergies. I’ve been sanding floors. The place is a dust mite motel.”

  “I’m glad you’re staying busy. You needed something to focus on, and I know how much you loved summers there. Maybe this will get those foolish ideas out of your head.”

  ***

  Bree watched Faelan, standing there, arms folded across his chest, eavesdropping. His eyes were intense, but his glower had softened. Bree decided that while he had no regard for her privacy, he did have a soft spot for mothers. Of course he would. He’d lost his.

  “I almost forgot,” her mother said. “Russell called.”

  “Russell called you?” Bree’s throat constricted.

  Faelan moved next to her, head tilted, probably listening to both ends of the conversation. He looked contrite now, as if he hadn’t just gone berserk.

  “He says you won’t take his calls,” her mother said.

  “Of course I won’t take his calls.”

  “So he’s not Romeo. We’re not getting any younger, dear. I want to play with my grandchildren, not bequeath them my belongings.”

  Faelan’s brow did its half-lift thing, proving he was indeed listening to her mother’s side of the conversation.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Bree muttered, wondering what her mother would say if she saw Faelan. He made Romeo look like a girl. Heck, he made Rambo look like a girl.

  Disaster averted, Bree hung up, wondering which Faelan she’d see. Fierce warrior, wounded hero, smoldering lover. Or Mr. Hyde.

  “So you have men here?” he said, making her wish she’d never found McGowan’s blasted map.

  “It’s not a male harem. They’re helping me with the house. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’d better get your act together, or I’ll call Peter and have you arrested. See how you like jail food.” She turned her back on him. “I’m going to bed. Make your own damn pie.” She kicked an apple at him and stomped down the hall toward her bedroom, not caring whether he was gone in the morning or not. The mirror rippled as she tromped past. She blinked and stared at the thing, but it just hung there like mirrors do. First the computer screen, now the mirror. It was Faelan. He was driving her insane. Kissing her one second, scaring the living crap out of her the next, and accusing her of God knows what.

  She slammed her bedroom door and locked it, ranting as she threw on pajamas. What had gotten into him? Was he jealous? Erik was a flirt, and Faelan had that whole he-man thing going, not to mention his appetite troubles. She was the only female around. That meant all his pent-up hunger had one outlet. Her. Of course he’d see any other male as a threat.

  She had to find his name before one of them ended up dead. She considered going after the book, when a creak sounded outside her door. It could wait until tomorrow. She couldn’t face Faelan again tonight. The footsteps moved on, and Bree settled into bed with Isabel’s journal. After McGowan’s murder, Isabel’s journal entries slowed. Bree flipped to an entry dated a few days before Frederick died.

  I dreamed of the chapel again. When I woke, Frederick was gone. I would suspect he had a mistress, but I know he sneaks out there at night. All those years he forbade the children to go because of loose stones, and now he spends hours there himself. Perhaps he goes to pray. I fear that like me, he worries over what to do about the secrets we were told. I suppose we’ll have to choose one of the children soon.

  Choose one of the children for what? An heir? A sacrifice? What secrets? A noise sounded somewhere in the house, but Bree figured it was Faelan preparing for bed.

  Frederick mumbles in his sleep about a book, but says he doesn’t recall it. I should warn him about the chapel, but he will just smile and pat my hand. In all our years of marriage, my disturbing dreams are the only thing I have kept from him, but men expect women to be proper and refined. I was afraid he would think me unladylike, or worse, a witch.

  Bree yawned and closed the journal. Had Frederick found the Book of Battles in the chapel? Was that why a few nights later he was found dead outside the door? Who could have put the book there? Someone in her family must be a thief. Did Grandma know something about it? Was that what she’d been so eager to talk about before she died? Trying to clear her conscience? Bree wrestled with possibilities until her eyelids drooped.

  ***

  Faelan reached for Bree’s door then pulled back. Nothing he said would get past her anger tonight. She was furious, and rightly so. He’d bloody well botched this up. He was either accosting or accusing the only woman who knew he was alive. He’d apologize in the morning. If they were still alive. He blew out a sigh and headed to the second floor. Perhaps he could earn back her trust. It was a bit early for demons yet; they preferred the dead of night.

  Two hours later, he wiped the sweat and dust from his face and surveyed the sanded floor. That should please her.

  He put aside his tools and left the room, aching for his bed. He couldn’t sleep, but he could grab a few minutes’ rest. Damnation. He’d forgotten to get a mattress. He climbed the narrow stairs, his brain muddled with exhaustion, suspicion, and lust. Regrets at what he’d done in the bathroom. More regrets that he hadn’t pulled her into the tub and finished it properly. But that wasn’t the way to treat a woman he’d known less than a day. She wasn’t a prostitute, but it didn’t mean she was fully human.

  He stepped onto the dusty floor of the attic, gazing at what remained of the people who’d lived and died here. A stack of boxes was piled in one corner with bed frames, mattresses, and a child’s rocking horse. Hers? Tables and other bits of furniture were on the far side. He followed a trail of footprints to an old trunk, similar to one he’d owned. She claimed to have found the map in a trunk. Someone had been here, that much was true. He could smell a flowery scent, like a woman’s perfume. Lavender. He hadn’t noticed it on Bree. The mattress could wait a bit. If her story was real, he needed to find out why this McGowan had been crawling around the graveyard and if he was connected to Druan.

  Faelan opened the trunk, raking through musty clothes, ribbons, and a stack of small boxes. One had McGowan’s name on the front, barely visible. She hadn’t lied about that. Unless she’d written it. There was no treasure map inside, only a couple of straight razors. It neither proved nor disproved her story, but he still found it hard to believe she just happened to find a map to the crypt where he had been buried, and she just happened to live here in this house where the key just happened to hang on the mantel. In his experience, coincidences usually required careful planning.

  He’d have to keep his head clear and his kilt on until he figured it out. Many a warrior had been sent to his grave by a filthy halfling hiding behind a lovely female form. He looked at the trunk again. Why would anyone in her family need one
of these? Faelan removed the contents and ran his finger along the lower edge until it brushed the familiar slit in the bottom corner. He sorted through the things he’d removed, but there was no key. He tilted the trunk on its side and heard a thump. Something was hidden inside. He was beginning to think this house held nothing but secrets.

  It wasn’t likely Bree knew about the compartment. Any woman who went around opening burial vaults in the middle of the night wouldn’t stop at a locked trunk.

  Faelan replaced the items, wondering what had happened to the few belongings he’d brought to America. As he closed the lid, he saw the footprints continued to a stack of boxes. Following the trail, he found books. He didn’t need books. He needed answers. He lifted the top of the nearest box and saw a leather journal with thick bindings. Was this the one she’d read from at breakfast? Why put it in here? He picked it up and opened the cover.

  The breath whooshed out of him like it did when Tavis punched him in the stomach.

  Chapter 10

  His clan’s sacred Book of Battles. What, by all that was holy, was it doing in America? In Bree’s attic? Faelan slammed the book shut and put it on the trunk, staring at it as if it were a coiled snake. He’d never seen the book, much less held it. No warrior had. It was forbidden, kept under lock and key in a place known only to the Keeper of the Book. Not even the Watchers were allowed to see it. Inside was a handwritten list of five centuries of battles between warriors of the Connor clan and their assigned demons. It was even rumored to hold future assignments not yet issued by Michael.

  If a demon got his—or her—hands on one, the entire clan could be wiped out. Faelan paced the floor, running his hands through his hair. Had Bree stolen it? Was she working with Druan?

  He thought about her eyes, the softness of her mouth, how it fit under his, how clumsy she was, how alive. And that pie. The best he’d tasted. She’d saved his life. Probably saved the world. Would a halfling or minion do that?