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? Hi, 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.