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 asked, 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 behind 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.

“Oh my.” Orla looked him over, head to toe. “He’s in his underwear, Briana. Why is he in his underwear?” Her eyes grew even rounder. “That’s why you aren’t taking Russell’s calls.” She smiled and gave him a look Bree knew too well, the kind that was sizing him for a tux and wondering where to order the wedding cake. “Hello, I’m Orla Kirkland, Briana’s mother, and you are…?”