Awaken the Highland Warrior (2 page)

Far across the ocean, a woman woke, breathless and sweating. It wasn’t one of those annoying, erotic, Duncan dreams. She pushed aside the long strands of red hair plastered to her forehead and lay still in the darkness, seeking the source of her dread. Her hand touched the metal growing warm at her neck, and she allowed her mind to drift, searching for somewhere to anchor. Blurred pictures flashed in her head, a dark-haired woman and a handsome man, then four more.

A round object came into focus, and she bolted upright, her nails digging into the bed.

The key.

For more than a century they’d searched for it, bled for it. Died for it.

The lost key.

***

“What do you mean it’s not a treasure chest?” Bree had a treasure map and her great-great-grandmother Isabel’s journal to prove it. She shook Faelan’s shoulder and lightly slapped his face. He didn’t move. Was he dead? She checked his heartbeat. It was a little fast, and his skin felt too warm. Should she take him to the hospital? Awkwardly she searched the sporran, but he had no wallet, no ID, only her disk, a strip of leather, and a smooth white stone. Who was he?

She replaced the items and studied him. He lay crossways on her bed, arms at his sides. A red and black kilt was belted at his waist, where the dagger still hung. His shirt was white, or had been at one time. It was smeared with mud, as were the beige socks—kilt hose—folded below his knees. She had to admit the costume looked authentic, except for the boots. They looked like something from the Civil War. Her specialty.

But it wasn’t his clothing that drew her. It was his face, strong jaw, straight nose, dark hair hanging to his shoulders, and most puzzling, his eyes. They had been uncannily familiar, but uncanny was her norm. Even as a child, when other girls were talking about schoolboys and planning sleepovers, she’d been dreaming of… whatever it was. She couldn’t put a name to it, although she often felt it had a face. A face! The painting.

Bree ran to the library, crossing the freshly sanded floor to the Davenport desk she’d pushed against the wall. Opening a drawer, she took out a small portrait she’d put there for safekeeping until she finished the room. The Highland warrior in the picture could have been Faelan’s twin, from the kilt and white shirt to the broadsword at his thigh.

She’d found the painting in an antique store while visiting her grandmother a couple of years ago. There was no signature, only a smudge at the bottom like a four leaf clover. Bree couldn’t have left the painting any more than she could’ve left a child, and it embarrassed her to think how much time she’d spent staring at it, like a young girl daydreaming over her first crush.

That was before Russell blew back into her life like Prince Charming incarnate. He hated the painting the minute he saw it. She should have taken it as an omen, but what man wouldn’t feel inadequate compared to a warrior like the one in her portrait?

Bree carried the painting back to her bedroom, where Faelan still slept. Her Highland warrior.
He isn’t yours
, she scoffed. But he belonged to someone. Maybe someone’s husband or lover. Someone’s son. Side by side, his resemblance to the painting was shocking. Could it be one of his ancestors? There were Scots in the area, and Faelan’s voice did have that sexy lilt, almost a brogue, although his name sounded Irish. The painting was obviously old. Bree knew old. She’d spent her life pursuing it, analyzing it. Old documents, old relics, old books.

No, it was too far-fetched, even for her, to think he could be related to the warrior in her painting. Stick any dark-haired man in Highland clothing, and he would probably look the same. Bree slid the portrait inside a drawer by the bed and ran a fingertip over Faelan’s arm. Whoever he was, he was stunning. She pulled her hand back with a sigh. No matter how rotten her love life was or how much he looked like her Highlander, she wouldn’t sink to caressing an unconscious man, especially a thief. For a moment she debated whether to get him out of his clothes, since the covers were getting damp, but he had a feral look about him that made her suspect he wouldn’t appreciate waking to find he’d been stripped. She could at least remove his muddy boots. Muddy? She looked at the footprints tracked across her wide-planked floor and handmade rug. Where did the mud come from?

She needed answers. He’d need food. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, maybe the path to his trust was there too, but for now, she didn’t want any more mud on her quilt or her favorite rug. She knelt at his feet and tugged on one boot, then removed the other, taking great care not to use her vantage point to see what he did or didn’t wear under his kilt.

After she gathered a first-aid kit, thermometer, damp washcloth, and towel from the bathroom, she left it by the bed and went to the kitchen for soup, bottled water, and an ice pack for his head. She started from the kitchen, when a crash sounded from her bedroom. Gripping the tray, she ran down the hall, coming to a halt in the doorway.

He was naked, sprawled face down on the bed, as bare as the day he was born. The lamp was overturned, his clothes piled on the floor next to his dagger and boots. He’d tried to turn the covers back, but now they were trapped underneath him. Bree set the tray on the table beside the bed.

He wasn’t the first naked man she’d seen, but he might as well have been. Taut skin covered muscle so defined it made her want to weep at the raw beauty. Several faint lines ran across his back and shoulders and a couple along the side of his hip. Scars.

Bree gave one lingering look from thick, dark hair to sexy feet, then averted her gaze and poked his shoulder with her fingertip. “Faelan, wake up.”

He didn’t move. She took one more look, leaned down, and shook him again.

He grunted and flipped over, pulling her flat against him. He rolled again, and the air whooshed from her lungs as he slammed her into the mattress, his forearm braced against her windpipe. “Druan,” he said, looking through her, “stop the war.”

She lay still, trying not to panic. “Faelan. Let me go,” she wheezed. When he didn’t, she tried to put her knee into his groin, but with her legs pinned under his it proved as ineffective as it had in the crypt. He groaned and moved his arm from her throat. She was so busy sucking in air she didn’t notice his fingers threading through her hair until she calmed enough to realize he was still on top of her, stomach to stomach, where her shirt had ridden up. Her legs, bared by shorts, were tangled with his. His skin felt hotter. He had a fever. And that wasn’t his dagger rubbing against her thigh.

His head lowered, damp hair brushing her cheek as he whispered strange words that made every cell in her body sizzle. Gaelic? His look was more alarming than before, as if she were water to his thirst. This was a look she could die in, a look that made her want to trash logic for a slim chance at bliss. His lips touched hers.

She was too stunned to stop the kiss and too captivated by the feel of his mouth on hers to pull away. The soft nibble, a mere testing of flesh against flesh, deepened to lips parting and a flick of his tongue. Just when she thought she’d lift off into space, he raised his head and blinked at her, then rolled off so fast she grabbed fistfuls of the quilt to keep from falling off the bed. She sat up, too dazed to move, and tried not to gape.

She’d thought the back view was good…

He lay next to her, his chest rising and falling, covered with the most beautiful tattoos, mystical, like some sort of ancient text. The symbols started below his collarbone, coming to a point above sculpted abs. A necklace lay in the center, held by a brown leather strap. Something inside her shifted, a memory edged in, then slid away. She dragged her gaze from his tattoos and forced herself to concentrate on his face. It held no threat, only remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You were dreaming. You have a fever.”

“Need rest,” he mumbled, eyes drifting shut.

“Wait. Do you need a doctor? Food?” She started to stand so she could cover him, but he grabbed her hand. The tingling started again.

“No doctor… rest… disease…”

“Are you sick?”

“Find it… destroy…”

Bree leaned closer. “Destroy what?”

“The world… stop… war.”

She felt a shiver creep in, but he was asleep. She pulled the sheet over his lap and checked his temperature. High, but not dangerous. She put the ice pack on his head, cleaned the blood from his face, then moved the cloth down the thick column of his neck and over the symbols on his chest. She wasn’t brave enough to clean the smudge low on his stomach, next to the faint line of hair that disappeared below the sheet.

Another scar crossed his left bicep, larger than the others. She ran her finger along the raised ridge, wondering what had put it there. Chill bumps appeared on his skin and rose on hers as a faint sound echoed in her ear, like the distant clang of a sword. She turned her attention to his necklace. It was unusual, round, about the size of a silver dollar. She couldn’t identify the metal, but it looked old. She touched it. Warm, like the vault had felt just before she opened it. Symbols were engraved on the front, similar to the ones on the treasure chest and the disk. Warning bells rang in her head.

How could the symbols on his necklace look like the ones on the treasure chest and the disk? Her disk?

Faelan’s head jerked against the pillow. “Sorry.”

Was he apologizing again for choking her? For kissing her? Stealing her treasure?

His hands gripped the covers. “Father… shouldn’t have sent them away…”

Sent who away? His father? Was this Druan person his father? “It’s okay,” she said, stroking his arm, but all this talk of disease and war was making her uneasy.

His hand unclenched and reached for hers. He pulled in a quick, shallow breath and calmed. Dried blood covered the cut on his palm. Picking up the washcloth, she wiped away the crust exposing a thin, pale line. A scar.

Her throat went dry. She dropped his hand. Less than an hour ago, she’d watched him cut it with the dagger. No one could heal that fast, except a superhero. Or Dracula
.

Vampire!

Bree sprang off the bed, clasping her throat. He’d crawled out of a crypt at night. He was strong, mysterious, and healed inhumanly fast. But vampires didn’t exist, did they? She’d always wondered… the eternal undead, shapeshifters. She had to do something. What? A stake through the heart? A silver bullet? No. Silver bullets were for werewolves. Why hadn’t she waited for Jared? He’d know what to do. Archeologists loved dead things.

Light. The overhead light was on, and he hadn’t burned. Was that why he passed out? She needed something stronger. Bree yanked the shade off the lamp and held the bare bulb close to his face. His lashes flickered, but he didn’t scream, didn’t start cooking. Didn’t even moan.

The legends varied, but they were consistent on one thing: vampires needed blood. If he was so weak, why hadn’t he drained her in the crypt? Where were his fangs? With that dagger, who’d need them? Maybe he was good and drank only from animals. Or maybe she’d read too many paranormal stories. Vampires were just a legend, no matter how intriguing the idea. She’d felt Faelan’s heart beating and the warmth of his skin. And who ever heard of a vampire with a fever? Who was he, then?

She picked the dagger up off the floor, examining it for the first time. It looked even older than his clothes. A dirk, at least early eighteenth century, similar to one she’d authenticated last year for a prince. The narrow blade was about ten inches long, the rounded hilt made of bronze. She checked his clothing piled on the floor, disappointed there was no
sgian dubh
tucked inside his kilt hose or hidden in his sleeve.

Where did he get this outfit? Not the local costume store.

Okay, Bree. You love mysteries and puzzles. Think
.

His clothes looked old, his dagger even older. He had an accent like nothing she’d heard and an uncommon name. His necklace had symbols similar to the disk that had been in her family for generations, a disk that turned out to be an elaborate lock. The chest—time vault, he called it—had felt warm before she opened it. He’d muttered something about 150 years, and he healed inhumanly fast. On top of it all, he was wet and muddy, but it hadn’t rained in weeks.

A wide yawn nearly dislocated her jaw. She needed a good night’s sleep to sort this out. There was probably a good explanation for everything, like he was a Scottish thief who’d heard about the treasure. There were lots of caves and lakes nearby where he could have hidden it and gotten wet. He probably had an accomplice who double-crossed him and left him inside the chest to die. But how would he have known about the disk? Cousin Reggie? He’d always been as fascinated with the disk as Bree had. He could’ve found the map and entry in Isabel’s journal years earlier, the sneaky little twerp. He could have even made a copy of the disk. It sounded crazy, but it was saner than her vampire theory.

Bree pulled the covers up to Faelan’s chin and started cleaning the tracks that had dried on her floor. Next she tackled his clothes—noting the lack of underwear—cringing as she applied Spray ’n Wash to his linen shirt and his kilt. She hand-washed away the dirt and blood. Even if the garments proved to be relics, he needed something clean to wear. She headed for the bathroom, trying to forget about sizzling kisses and fangs and mud that shouldn’t exist.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as she reached for the blinds. A storm was coming. A flash of lightning streaked the sky, and something moved at the edge of the woods. A deer. Or a camper. A few campers always showed up here lost. Since Grandma Emily thought she was a cross between Martha Stewart and Mother Teresa, it wasn’t unusual for the visitors to stay for hours.

What if it was the person who locked Faelan inside the burial vault? Had he seen her dragging Faelan across the backyard? Could Faelan’s weakness have been a ploy to get inside? Thief or ghost, his fever was real. So was the lump on his head. Bree locked the window and closed the blind. Still, it might be wise to hide her valuables. Her Civil War collection was on loan to one of the universities. She doubted anyone would want her books or artifacts. The only real thing of value to a thief would be the two-carat diamond earrings Grandma had given Bree before she died. The earrings had been in her family as long as the disk.