“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.
“He and another man with him.”
“What year?”
“Early 1860s. After I read the journal, I remembered seeing McGowan’s name on the box holding the map. The map resembled the graveyard. The riddle said ‘close to God,’ and the graveyard is close to the chapel. I thought someone had buried coins or jewels. Then I noticed the crypt was missing on the map, the biggest and oldest thing there. I figured it had to be a clue. And there was no place to hide anything except inside the burial vault.”
“Can I see the journal?”
Bree started to refuse, thinking it would be invading Isabel’s privacy, kind of like opening her underwear drawer and waving her bloomers around, but Faelan seemed very curious about Isabel’s visitors, and Bree wanted to know why. “Sure,” she said. She found it on the floor beside her bed, where it usually fell a
fter a long night of reading, and carried it back to the table. “I’ll read it to you.”
“The most dreadful thing has happened. McGowan and another man were robbed and murdered last evening as they walked through the woods to town. The bodies were found early this morning. Frederick tried to keep it from me, but I overheard the men talking about the vicious attack. There was speculation that someone else was also searching for McGowan’s treasure, or it may have stemmed from an argument over this impending war. Someone in the area has been helping slaves escape to Canada. The men did seem rather intense. The older one in particular was disturbing. I think Frederick regretted inviting them to stay.”
“War?” Faelan asked, his voice hollow.
“The American Civil War.” If he wasn’t from this country, or had been locked in the time vault prior to 1861, he wouldn’t know about it. “With your memory loss, you probably don’t recall what a terrible time it was for this country. Brothers killing brothers. More than six hundred thousand soldiers died.”
He sat back in his chair, looking ill. “How long did it last?”
“From 1861 to 1865.” She knew everything there was to know about the Civil War. Her childhood obsession had become her passion. It was the reason she’d become a historian. “Shall I read more?”
He nodded, and she continued.
“Today was one of the saddest I have known, watching McGowan’s son remove the bodies from the crypt. I could feel his grief. I would not admit it except in these pages, but I think even before McGowan arrived I sensed death. Perhaps it is the reason I wanted the disk for a good luck charm, something to ward off evil. I should have known those things don’t work. Frederick watches me as if I will have a nervous breakdown. I suspect he knows I’m reminded of my grandfather’s tragic, untimely death. He was also robbed and brutally killed. Father was a baby then, and according to his mother, barely escaped with his life.
“Perhaps Frederick is right, and the pregnancy is making me emotional and restless. I am not the only one unable to sleep. Even as I write, I can see a lantern moving in the graveyard. Ghosts? Or McGowan’s son searching for his father’s treasure? I feel certain I have seen the son somewhere. I remember now—”
“The next page is missing,” Bree said. “I’d kill to know what Isabel remembered—”
A scream sounded outside.
Bree jumped to her feet, and the falling journal struck her plate, dumping the contents on her jeans before it hit the floor.
Chapter 5
Faelan grabbed the knife and lunged at Bree. She yelped, but he was there before she could jump clear, shielding her from the door. She tried to peer around broad shoulders, but all she could see was a muscular forearm and long, lean fingers gripping the blade. He’d put himself in front to protect her. She felt a quiver that had nothing to do with the horrible scream.
“Where’s my dirk?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Stay here,” he ordered. In three strides he was at the door. Whoever he was, he was used to being obeyed.
“What was that sound?” she asked, but he was already gone. She ran to the window and watched him move through the pale pre-dawn, one hand gripping the knife, the other clasped to his chest. He stopped and lowered his head, then trotted along the path like a bloodhound scenting a trail, as he disappeared into the woods.
What if he didn’t come back, just kept going? Bree jerked open the door and took off after him. She found him in the clearing near the dig, standing tall and motionless, like a valiant protector of an ancient Scottish realm.
“Did you see anything?” she asked, panting.
He whirled on her, his expression fierce, the kitchen knife still in his hand. “I told you to stay inside.”
She jumped back, alarmed, but she didn’t care what time he came from, she wasn’t his dog. “Excuse me?” Her glare was wasted.
His eyes scoured the forest like a predator, concentrating on one spot beyond the tree line, before moving back to the empty holes nearby. “What’s this?”
“It’s a dig. My friend is an archeologist. He thinks this was once an Iroquois settlement.”
Faelan frowned. “How long has he been digging?”
“A few months. He’s working from notes an old trapper left. Grandma opened the site to him before she died. She loved Native American history. He hasn’t found much, only some arrowheads and a beaded necklace.” Jared was going to kill her when he found out she’d gone treasure hunting without him.
Bree caught a glimpse of Faelan’s talisman as he moved closer to the holes. She’d feed him as much as he could eat, if he’d let her examine it. “Be careful,” she warned, when his foot neared the edge. “Those holes are dangerous.”
“These wee holes?”
“I sprained my ankle in that one.” She muttered to herself, “The same ankle I broke in the cave.”
He gave her a look that bordered on insulting. “What were you doing in a cave?”
He not only healed fast, he had ears like Superman. “Exploring.” She shuddered at the memory, running her hands through her hair. “Did you figure out what that sound was?”
“No,” he said, glancing at his dusty boot.
Bree saw a footprint in the dirt smeared with something… red?
Faelan nudged a rock, covering the print, and turned his attention back to the trees.
“Does this place seem familiar?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Do you get many trespassers?”
“Just campers,” she said. “There’s a campground a few miles through the woods. Every year a few of them get lost.” Several since she’d moved in. “I think I saw one last night.” She nodded toward his boot. “Is that blood?”
Faelan gripped her arm. “You saw someone last night? What did he look like?” His accent was stronger now, the brogue more distinct.
What did it matter, since he couldn’t remember anything? “I’m not sure it was even a man. It was dark outside.”
“Do you have a horse and carriage?”
“I have a Mustang—”
“It’ll do,” he said, pulling her across the grass, his longer legs forcing her to jog to keep up. His eyes never stopped scanning.
She wanted to ask what he was looking for, but she was almost certain she wouldn’t like his answer. “Where are we going?”
“We need to leave.”
“Why? Did you see something back there?”
He didn’t answer, just kept pulling her forward.
“I guess we could ride around the area, see if you remember anything.” While they were out, they could get extra sheets and get him some new clothes. Nothing would be open this early except Walmart, but if secrecy was so important, he was going to have to lose the kilt. Probably best. Knowing he was naked under it wasn’t doing her any good. “Let me change clothes and get my bag.”
“Do you have to change?” he asked, eyeing the glob of food on her jeans.
“I’m wearing jelly,” she said panting. “Can you slow down?”
He did, but not much. “Has this place been in your family long?”
“For generations,” she said, looking at the house coming into view, faded, yet grand, like an old woman who’d once been a beauty, and now only character remained. Like Grandma Emily. “My great-great-grandmother’s family owned the land. Her father gave it to her and Frederick, her husband, as a wedding gift. Frederick built the house for Isabel when she was only eighteen. The chapel was already here. A lot of my ancestors are buried in the graveyard. There was a village through the woods. This path was the road back then. My great-great-great-grandfather had a farmhouse not far from here. It burned down a long time ago.”
For a man whose movements were so smooth, the hesitation in his stride struck her as extraordinarily clumsy.
“What was his name?”
“Samuel Wood. Does that ring a bell?”
He didn’t answer, just watched the trees as if he expected them to attack. They
hurried past the orchard her grandmother had planted near the house. “Look out!” Faelan said, as Bree’s shoe caught the edge of a log Jared’s men had carried over from a tree they’d cut near the dig.
She felt herself falling, and then she was in Faelan’s arms, her breasts plastered to his chest. His heart hitched. Or was it hers?
“Are you okay?” he asked, untangling their legs. He didn’t let go. He searched her face, blinked a few times, and jumped back as something poked her stomach. She didn’t have the courage to look down and see if it was his sporran or something else.
“I think so. Thanks. You’re fast.”
His lips twitched. “Now I understand how you fell in that wee hole.”
Let him fall in one and see how little it was, she thought, checking to see if she’d torn one of her favorite shoes. “I meant to split the wood a few days ago but never got around to it.” She’d gotten sidetracked by McGowan’s map. “I love a fire in the winter. I may have to hire someone.”
Faelan scooped up an apple, cleaned it off on his kilt, and took a bite.
“Take all you want,” she said, looking at the fruit wasting on the ground. “Grandma used to make applesauce, but I never got the hang of it. All I can manage is a pie.”
“Apple pie?” he asked, wiping a drop of juice from his chin.
“I’m not the most graceful person alive, but I make a pretty good pie. I suppose I could bake one for dessert tonight.” Maybe a full belly would loosen his tongue.
“Hurry and get what you need,” he said as they reached the back porch. He hurled the apple core into the trees so far it would’ve put a major-league baseball pitcher to shame, and posted himself at the door like a guard.
What did he think was out there? She changed into a print skirt and grabbed her tote bag before meeting him outside. His eyes roved over her legs, looking as shocked as if she’d slapped him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She led him toward the azaleas and pines hiding her red 1968 Fastback from view, dropping back a few steps when he kept glancing at her legs. “There’s my Mustang—”
Awaken the Highland Warrior Page 4