Awaken the Highland Warrior

by Anita Clenney

  He shrugged out of his jeans and underwear, wishing he’d worn his kilt. Easier access. With one quick look at her, to be sure she was sure, he lowered his body to hers and entered, working in deeper and deeper until her breath caught as he slid home.

  He withdrew, thrust in again and held, burying his face in her hair. He felt her tongue on his neck, against his throbbing pulse. She wrapped her legs around his hips, clinging to his shoulders as he drove into her.

  “Stop,” she said, her voice muffled.

  Damnation. He didn’t know if he could. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, forcing himself to hold still.

  “No,” she gasped. “The bed. It’s shaking.” In spite of her words, she tilted her hips and gave a little moan.

  To hell with the bed. He thrust in again, and from the sounds she made, she must have stopped worrying about the noise too. He wanted to make it last, but any chance of that was lost when her hands dropped to his arse, fingers digging into his flesh. Her body tightened around him, telling him she was already there. Her mouth, still open in a moan, reminded him he’d neglected to kiss her. Too late now. One more thrust, and he erupted, the pleasure so intense it hurt. He collapsed on top of her, shivering, and he knew for certain why warriors weren’t supposed to take a mate. She wasn’t even his, but she held the power to destroy him. If a demon came now, he’d be done.

  He feared he was crushing her, but he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to lie here forever, locked in her arms. He eased a bit of his weight, but stayed inside her. Realization slowly seeped in. He’d done it again, a fast, hard tumble, without even a kiss. He hadn’t cleaned his teeth yet, so she was likely glad he hadn’t kissed her. But what kind of love was that for a woman? Even if she enjoyed it, that was no way to treat her, rough, without tenderness.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but he didn’t sound sorry, even to his own ears. He lifted himself on shaky elbows, wanting, yet dreading, to look at her. “Are you okay?”

  She blinked twice and focused on him. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  And he’d barely tried. He smiled and wished to God she could be his. He pulled out and rolled next to her, his body sated with pleasure, but questions were starting to fill his head. How did a man thank a woman for such a gift? Yet again. He should offer to help her clean up.

  He reached for her, but she scooted away, moved off the bed, and stood, holding the pillow over her body like a shield. Not good. Brushing her tangled hair from her eyes, she searched the floor, still not looking at him. Definitely not good. She backed toward the bathroom, pillow in place, clothes dangling from her hand. If he hadn’t been so dismayed, he’d have found the sight amusing.

  He leaned on one elbow and watched the bathroom door shut. Once again he’d taken advantage of the only human being who knew he existed. He slammed his head against the pillow. He was an arse. Not to mention, he could’ve made a bairn with a woman he couldn’t marry.

  ***

  Cleaned and dressed, Bree sat on the side of the claw-foot tub still holding the pillow. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t bad enough that she’d almost entered into holy matrimony with a demon, that she could’ve been the mother of a halfling. No, she had to go and make love, unprotected, yet again, to a man who at best should be dead, who believed women were helpless creatures to be coddled and protected, and at worst, could be another demon pretending to be a warrior who was more than a century and a half old.

  Then there was the sheer embarrassment of it. Had everyone heard the bed shaking?

  There was a soft rap at the door. “Bree?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  Bree opened the door a few inches and peeked out.

  “I’m sorry,” Faelan muttered, looking not sorry at all. His eyes were already darkening, roving over what parts of her he could see.

  She lowered her gaze to his bare feet. He had nice feet. Strong, solid, sexy—

  “Bree.” He slid his arm through the crack in the door, fingers tipping her chin. “Look at me. We need to talk. I was out of control. I shouldn’t have taken you like that. Again. A woman deserves more than what I gave you.”

  “More?” She’d not have lived to dream about it.

  “Gentleness and caresses.” He wedged the door open and pushed his head inside. His fingertips moved lightly up her arm. “Sweet words and kisses,” he said, eyeing her mouth. “Lots of kisses.” His head lowered, and Bree stepped back. “Damnation. I can’t even get close enough for an apology, and I want to make love to you again—” A knock sounded outside. Faelan glanced at Bree, and she watched through the crack as he went to answer it. He checked once more to be sure she was out of sight, then turned the knob. Bree couldn’t see who stood there, but she could see the red fingernail marks she’d left on his back. Cripes.

  “Good morning—oh, my. What interesting tattoos. My goodness me.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Edwards.” Faelan put his hand on the door, preventing it from opening too wide.

  “When you didn’t come to breakfast, I got worried. And Ms. Kirkland isn’t answering. If you see her, would you tell her about breakfast?”

  Bree rolled her eyes. Mrs. Edwards had probably heard the bed shaking.

  “I’m sure she overslept, like me,” he said, tugging his ear. “Uh, we’ll be down in fifteen minutes… if I find her, that is.”

  “The other guests have up and disappeared, including your friend’s brother, so there’s plenty of food.”

  “My friend’s brother?”

  “I had a migraine last night. I got up for my medicine and saw you two on the landing. I’m glad you met. He asked for your name, but I can’t give out that kind of information. Policy, you know.”

  Faelan’s shoulders went rigid. “It wasn’t me.”

  “I could’ve sworn I saw… it must have been the other two guests. It was dark, and I didn’t have my glasses on. Then you didn’t meet him? Too bad. He thought he recognized you. Ms. Kirkland, too. Said you looked like his brother’s friends. Described you both, and everything. I wonder why he didn’t stay.”

  Faelan’s knuckles whitened against the door. “Did he have dark blond hair?” His voice was all warrior now.

  “Why, no. It was black, black as sin. Had these dark eyes, like they could see right through you.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “Must have been early, before all the policemen arrived—oh dear.”

  “Policemen?”

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. A homeless man was found dead in the woods.”

  Bree’s brain whirled. Another dead body?

  Chapter 20

  That’s where she’d seen the two men. Maybe they weren’t embracing.

  “How did he die?” Faelan asked.

  Mrs. Edwards’s voice took on a conspiratorial hush. “Well, I called Mrs. Rutherford, down at the post office. She knows everything anybody’s ever thought about doing. Her son works for the coroner. He said there wasn’t any trauma to the body, no bleeding, like the man just dropped dead. And he was white as a ghost.”

  Definitely different from the man behind her house, Bree thought.

  “Who found him?” Faelan asked.

  “Another homeless man, before daylight. I didn’t hear a thing. No sirens, nothing. I guess on account of the police knew he was already dead. I thought they’d want to talk to me, and my guests of course, but nobody called. Come, now, let’s not ruin your appetite.”

  Nothing could ruin Faelan’s appetite.

  “Hurry down before the food gets cold. I have French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon. And lots of it.”

  Faelan rubbed his stomach. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Five? She couldn’t get the knots out of her hair and the smell of Faelan off her skin in five minutes. Bree finger-combed her head, wondering if he’d even wait for her.

  Mrs. Edwards left, and Bree stepped out of the bathroom.

  “You heard?” Faelan aske
d, pulling his shirt over his head.

  “If he was asking about us, he must have seen us leave the castle.”

  “I don’t know how else he would have known we were here.”

  “I saw two men in the woods last night. I thought it was a tryst, but I probably witnessed a murder. Maybe we should skip breakfast and get out of here in case they decide to question us.”

  His face fell. “Skip breakfast?”

  “Never mind.”

  “We’ll leave as soon as we eat. Then, if we can’t locate my clan, we’ve got to find someplace else to go.”

  ***

  Faelan slid the board back into place. The book and the key were safe. Now, if he could find his kilt and sporran. Bree was still on the phone trying to get a hotel. He’d spent a good part of the day in the chapel, searching for another entrance a warrior might have used to gain access to the cellar, then a couple of hours driving her car up and down the driveway, anything to stay away from her. He didn’t trust himself within smelling distance. He’d even spilled a bottle of perfume, trying to block her scent.

  He made sure she was still on the phone and slipped inside her room. Maybe she’d put his kilt in here. He checked her closet, under her bed, and then opened a drawer in the table. He stared at the painting in disbelief. “How in tarnation?” Was it more proof of what he didn’t have the courage to admit? There were too many coincidences already. Now this? Faelan heard Bree enter the room, and he swung around to confront her.

  “What are you doing?” Bree’s gaze darted to the bed, as if he’d come to seduce her.

  “Oh,” she said, noticing the painting he held. “I meant to show you that. Doesn’t it look like you?”

  “It is me.”

  “What?”

  “It is me. My sister painted it.”

  “Your sister?” Bree’s mouth dropped open. “This is the painting you lost?”

  “Aye. Where did you get it?”

  “An antique shop in Albany. How is it possible?”

  “I was wondering the same thing.”

  “Certainly explains why you looked so familiar when I first saw you.”

  Faelan felt a prickle behind his ear, the one with the mark that couldn’t be. “I looked familiar?”

  “It was kind of alarming, until I remembered the painting. I knew you looked like the warrior, but I thought it had to be a coincidence.”

  Damnation, he hated that word.

  “The man at the shop didn’t know anything about it, since it wasn’t signed; there’s just this little smudge.”

  “It’s a four-leaf clover. She signed all her paintings that way. So you end up with my sister’s painting, and you own the property where I was buried, and you found the map that led to the crypt, and you had the key to the time vault on your mantel, and my clan’s Book of Battles was in your attic. Did I forget anything?”

  She scowled. “Are you going to do this again?”

  “What are the chances—”

  “I don’t care what the chances are. I’m tired of trying to prove I’m on your side. I rescued you from the time vault, fed you, tried to help you find your family, saved your life in the chapel, and blast it, I even slept with you. More than once. You should be happy the painting isn’t lost.” She turned on her heel.

  Faelan caught her arm and pulled her closer. “I am. It’s just a shock to find it here. I apologize.”

  Her scowl softened, and she stood beside him as he turned the portrait to catch the last rays of evening light. His thumb brushed the smudged clover on the bottom. He remembered Alana begging him to let her paint this. She’d do anything, she’d pleaded. He’d stood for what felt like hours as she painted, while his thoughts drifted, searching for—Faelan’s gaze swung to Bree. It was impossible.

  “You look so lost in the painting. What were you thinking?”

  She wouldn’t believe him if he told her. “It’s hard to say.” Even harder to believe, himself.

  She leaned closer and softly gasped. “That sword, I saw it in the castle.”

  “This sword? My sword?”

  “It’s in Druan’s library, in a glass case.”

  He gripped her arm. “You’re sure?”

  “Unless there’s another one like it.”

  No, there was only one. His father had made it special for him. “I was surprised Druan didn’t take my dirk. He took everything else. Probably didn’t see it tucked in my boot.”

  “We can steal the sword back.”

  “I’ll get it.” His painting and now his sword. It felt like bits of him were coming back. He glanced out the window. “We need to leave soon. Any luck with hotels?” After she was safely settled, he would slip back here.

  “No, everything’s full, but I have an idea,” she said, twisting her ring.

  “What kind of idea?” He doubted he’d like any idea that made Bree nervous.

  “I was thinking we could spend one more night here. We need to know what Russell—Druan—is up to. You’ve got your dagger and your talisman. I have my grandfather’s old shotgun. There’s some rust on the barrel, but I’m pretty certain it’ll fire. Maybe one of them will get close and we can capture him.”

  “Have ye lost yer mind?” If Druan wasn’t the death of him, she would be.

  She crossed her arms and looked offended. “I’ll stay inside,” she said, glaring. “I promise.”

  Setting a trap was a good idea, after he got her away from this place.

  “I won’t do anything stupid,” she said, as if she hadn’t just broken into a demon’s castle and barely escaped with her life.

  She was a walking calamity, but Faelan knew she’d never leave unless he forced her, and then she’d most likely sneak back. It was safer to have her where he could watch her. He gave her a pained nod.

  “What were you doing in my room, anyway?” she asked.

  “Looking for my sporran. I can’t find any of my things.”

  “I’ll help you look for them later,” she said, nudging him toward the door. She glanced at her rocking chair, and he saw the edge of his kilt sticking out from under a blanket.

  “That’s my kilt.” He moved to the chair and pulled the blanket aside. All his things were there. The kilt, sporran, shirt, belt, and hose. “Are you hiding my clothes?”

  She hurried after him. “I was just taking pictures. This is an authentic Highland outfit, worn by a real Highlander. From the 1800s. Do you know how incredible this is?” She picked up his kilt and pressed it to her chest, stroking it softly, like a woman would stroke her lover’s face.

  He shook his head. “You and your photographs.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking my things.”

  “But, but,” she sputtered. “Do you have to?”

  “You want to keep my clothes?”

  Her eyes grew brighter. “Could I?”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, discreetly removing the white stone from his sporran and slipping it into his pocket. He put the sporran back on the chair. Maybe she’d be so busy photographing his kilt that she’d forget about those swords he’d hidden in the chapel.

  “The kilt looks like it’s been dyed using plants. I did some research, and I believe the red comes from the madder plant. If I’d known for certain they were authentic I wouldn’t have used Spray ’n Wash…” She put the kilt down as gently as she would a new bairn. “Did all the warriors in your time wear a kilt?” she asked, following him to the door.

  “At home we did. Otherwise, we dressed as natives of the land where we traveled.”

  “Isn’t a kilt awkward for climbing over things, like fences and castle walls?”

  “No, it’s comfortable. ’Course, someone standing below would likely get an eyeful. Though, there was the time Ian almost castrated himself.”

  ***

  Faelan crept toward the parlor in his underwear. He’d just taken off his jeans when he heard the car. This one was brave, driving right up to the house. Faelan stood be
hind the door and waited. The handle jiggled, and the door opened. He sniffed, but he couldn’t smell a bloody thing except Bree’s perfume. The whole house smelled like her. He heard a thump and seized the man from behind, wrapping his arm in a stranglehold around his neck. He was short. Faelan pressed his dirk against the man’s jugular vein, and a feminine shriek pierced his eardrums.

  Faelan was shocked, but he held on. In this new century, he couldn’t afford a female the courtesies he’d been accustomed to giving before. He tightened his grip, lifting the intruder off the floor. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Light flooded the room. Bree stood in her soft sleeping pants, like the ones she’d bought him, and a shirt that left most of her shoulders bare. Her mouth hung open. The thing in his arms sputtered, and Bree shot forward.

  “Mom? Oh my gosh.”

  Mom?

  “Put her down.”

  He lowered the dirk and set the woman on the floor. “I’m sorry. I thought she was…” he stopped, not sure how much Bree wanted revealed about their nocturnal visitors.

  ***

  “What is the meaning of this, Briana? Who is this man? And what is that smell?” Bree’s mother stepped away from Faelan, rubbing her neck but maintaining her composure. Orla Kirkland always maintained her composure, even when she was being strangled. She turned to face Faelan. Her eyes widened.

  He did make a spectacular sight in his boxer briefs, dark hair hanging to his shoulders, and muscles no gym could endow, sporting tattoos, a dagger, and bare, sexy feet.