***

Connor. The clan named in the Book of Battles. Proof he was connected to the legend. So why all the pretense? He couldn’t be that desperate for a meal.

He didn’t look angry now, he looked worried and ashamed. He probably expected her to toss him out. She should, but she supposed she’d be upset too, if she found someone poking around at the thing that had stolen a lifetime from her. Still, it was no excuse for acting like a caveman. “The computer’s in the bedroom.” Connor could be a Scottish or Irish surname, but he had a bit of Scottish brogue, and he’d been wearing a kilt. They had a starting point.

Bree fired up the computer while Faelan inspected the artifacts and treasures she’d collected over the years. “What are these?” he asked, running a hand over one of the wooden boxes.

“Puzzle boxes,” she said, as the image of a face blinked across the screen, fading to black. She rubbed her eyes. She had to get more sleep. “They were my Aunt Layla’s. My dad’s youngest sister. She was only twenty-five when she died.” No one in the family talked about Layla. The topic was as taboo as Bree’s twin. “I always loved the boxes, so Grandma gave them to me.”

Faelan moved behind Bree, so close she smelled the warmth of his skin. She pushed her chair back and jumped to her feet. “I think this computer’s possessed.” She felt like tossing it in the yard.

Faelan glanced out the window and frowned. “It’s getting late. We should leave.”

“We haven’t even had dinner. Are you that afraid?”

His muscles bulged. “I’m not afraid, but there’s a killer out there, Russell or someone else. It’s not safe for you to stay.”

“I’ll take you to a hotel, but I’m not running away.” She was tired of running. Russell always found her. Besides, what would he do against a big, bad warrior? Or a big bad demon, for that matter.

“I’m trying to protect you, and you’re making it bloody hard.” He scowled at her and left the room. A second later, she heard his door slam.

Male chauvinist. She’d never asked him to protect her in the first place. After his behavior in the crypt, she wondered if he was the threat.

***

Bree studied the names until her eyes blurred. She’d seen hundreds, but no Faelan. The oven timer dinged. His apple pie. She should let it burn. She put the Book of Battles back in the box. Tonight, after he was asleep, she’d find his name. The aroma of apples and cinnamon filled the house. She opened the oven. “Ouch.” She blew on her burned finger and pulled out the apple pie. Perfect. The crust was golden brown, the smell delicious. She started to dump it in the trash, when it occurred to her there was food cooking and Faelan was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d left without her. She set the pie on the counter, fighting off a wave of panic.

A thump sounded outside, followed by a crash. Alarmed, she hurried to the back door. Faelan stood near the orchard, beside a pile of wood almost as tall as he was, holding an ax. Her eyes smarted with relief. He’d changed into his kilt again. His hair was loose, his shirt hanging over the shed door. Muscles bunched and released as he raised the ax, sinking the blade into a piece of wood. He tossed it on the pile and reached for another, splitting it clean in half. He looked up, and his eyes met hers. Something quivered inside her, terrifying in its force.

He grinned. If she hadn’t dodged it, Cupid’s arrow would’ve nailed her right there on her back porch. After all the inconsiderate jerks she’d dated, one mention of needing the wood split, and he’d done it for her. Even though he was upset.

She swallowed the ball of emotion and called out, “Dinner’s ready. I made a pie.”

“Give me a minute to stack this, and I’ll be in,” he yelled back, picking up an armload.

She walked inside, oddly disturbed for someone who’d avoided having to split a load of wood. She’d never had this strong a reaction to a man, and she’d sought out handsome men like a plant seeks light. This was bad. No matter what secrets he held, he had the power to destroy everything she’d worked for, normalcy, peace of mind. Maybe she should let Jared give Faelan a bed. That thought gurgled and died when Faelan stepped in the back door. His damp shirt hung from one hand, and in the other, he held a clump of wildflowers. He stretched out his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Her throat clogged, and she focused on the sweat trickling down his chest to keep from crying. No one had ever given her wildflowers. She swallowed and took them from his dusty hand.

“I know I’ve been… difficult,” he said. “I don’t find it easy to trust people. And I’m too protective. I don’t know any other way to be. Can you forgive me?” He stepped closer and touched her arm. His pheromones shot straight up her nose. She knew all she had to do was take half a step, and she’d be in his arms.

She nodded and stepped back. “Thank you. For the flowers. And the apology.”

“I know it’s not much, but I do appreciate all you’ve done for me.” He sniffed. “Is that apple pie?”

She nodded. “Are you hungry?” He was always hungry.

“Starving.” He glanced at her mouth and quickly looked away. “I probably should wash up first. I’m sure I don’t smell as good as the pie.” He grinned and wiped his forehead and chest with his shirt, leaving her hotter than the bubbling stew.

“Eat first. Just wash your hands at the sink there. After dinner you can take a long soak in the tub. Your muscles must be sore from splitting all that wood,” she said, watching them ripple as he walked toward the sink. She filled a vase and put the flowers on the table.

Dinner was awkward. Every time she looked at him, he was watching her. It wasn’t just him. She was battling her own demons. All she could think about was that kiss in the dressing room, sitting astride his leg.

“Leave the dishes,” she said when they’d finished. “I’ll clean them up while you try the Jacuzzi.”

“Jacuzzi?”

“A big tub. Come with me.”

He followed her to the master bath. “A lot fancier than what we had,” he said, touching the marble sink. “My mom—” He paused, and Bree saw pain flash in his eyes. She pretended not to notice the slip. It was becoming a strain to keep up this charade, but he was softening toward her. She hoped he was close to telling her the truth. “This shower is nicer than the one in the hall bathroom. Or you can use the Jacuzzi.” She pointed to the jetted tub. “A massage would probably feel nice.”

“Massage?” he said, giving her a look that made her knees wobble.

“The tub… the water massages you. I don’t know why Grandma went all out on the bathroom, when the rest of the house needed work, but I’m not complaining. Would you like to try it?”

“Aye. I would.”

Bree found an extra toothbrush, one of her disposable razors, and some antiperspirant that claimed it was strong enough for a man. She hoped so. The condoms had rattled her so badly she’d forgotten several things on her grocery list. She gave him the toiletries, pretending she didn’t notice his surprise, then quickly left. She closed the door behind her and heard two thuds that sounded like boots against tile. She was still trying to banish the image of him in his kilt, swinging that ax, when he called her name. She eased down the hall and poked her head in the bedroom. The bathroom door was open, water running. His kilt and boots were on the floor.

“Can you help me?” he asked, gripping a white towel around his waist.

“Help you?” she squawked, remembering the old westerns she and her father had watched, with someone scrubbing the cowboy’s back while he sat in a big copper tub. Surely he didn’t—

“How do you make the tub work?”

Relieved, she showed him how to turn on the jets and escaped into the hall. What was she going to do with him? He was hiding the truth, mysterious, scary as heck at times, but he was also protective and kind. And though he took pains to hide it, he was grieving. If he was as old as she thought, he had reason to grieve. Everyone he knew would be dead.

Turning, she caught her reflection in the antique mirror and rubbed the chill bumps on her arms. Sometimes she could swear the mirror had eyes.

***

Bree stared at the closed door. What was he doing in there? Cleaning? He’d agreed to take bathroom duty, since she didn’t have fields to be plowed and cows to be milked. A woman couldn’t argue with that. He could be trying to avoid the sparks flying between them. The look he’d given her in the bathroom had darn near incinerated her. Bree put her ear against the door. All she could hear were the jets. What if he passed out? A person could drown in her Jacuzzi. She tapped on the door. “Faelan? Are you okay?” He didn’t answer. She turned the knob and peeked inside. His head was against the back of the tub, his eyes closed.

He was unconscious.

Bree burst into the bathroom and tripped over his discarded kilt. As she lurched toward the bathtub, she registered several things at once. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips parted, his left hand gripping the tub. The other…

Oh my.



Chapter 8


She flung her hands out to break her fall and crashed on her knees next to the tub. Faelan’s eyes flew open, the surprise gone before it settled, replaced by something so hot and dark she wanted to run. She started to stand, but his arm snaked around her neck, and he hauled her forward, his mouth covering hers. No playful teasing, no testing the waters, this was kissing, hard core. Her heart pounded like hundreds of River Dancers stomping out a beat. She didn’t care that the side of the tub was digging into her ribs or that she was more in the water than out. She’d been kissing men from the wrong century.

Or were they just human?

The shock of that almost made her pull away, but Faelan guided her hand where he wanted it, trapping it under his. To her astonishment, she left it there. How long they kissed, she didn’t know. Seconds, hours. His hand tensed in her hair, gripping hard. His lips stopped moving, open on hers, and he groaned as his body released. Shuddering, he held her close, his forehead buried in the crook of her neck as her heart cried, Romeo.

She knew if she searched another gazillion years, she’d never feel this connection with anyone else. But she’d been wrong before. Terribly wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he said, drying her hand with the towel lying on the edge of the tub. He turned off the Jacuzzi, letting his head thump softly against the tile. Wet, dark hair clung to his shoulders, and Bree glimpsed the edge of a tattoo behind his ear. How had she missed one?

She rose to her feet and tried to think of something to say. What had possessed her? Historians didn’t do things like this. Of course, she’d never had a man like Faelan naked in her bathtub, either.

Without warning, he stood. Water streamed off his body as he reached for another towel. He swiped it across his face and chest, then stepped out of the tub. For a man from the 1800s, he didn’t possess much modesty, or maybe he figured she’d already seen everything he had. She, on the other hand, might take a shot at swooning.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped closer. “I don’t know what to say. I was trying to get it out of my system. I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

“It’s my fault for barging in on you. You didn’t answer, and I thought you’d passed out… or something.”

“Or something.” A wolfish grin curved one side of his mouth. “I got you wet,” he said, stretching out a hand, following a strand of hair from root to end. “‘Thank you’ doesn’t seem the right thing to say.” Another step, and the towel brushed her stomach. His hand moved lower, down her neck, past her ticking pulse. His eyes darkened and nostrils flared, as if he could smell her attraction. “Do you want me to take care of you?” he asked, lowering his head.

“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.