“You’ve been talking to Ronan a lot. Why didn’t he tell me?” Ronan had pointed out, in painful detail, every mistake Faelan had made with Bree.

“You’ll have to ask him, but I suspect they didn’t want you distracted.”

Money had been the least of anyone’s worries over the last four days. He didn’t care about being rich, but it would be a relief to take care of Bree for a change, fix her house, repay her for the clothes and food, buy her gifts—starting with a wedding ring, he hoped—provide for however many babies she would give him. Assuming he could father children after more than a century in the time vault, and that Bree would have him. She still hadn’t said.

“I’m kidding. I don’t care if you don’t have a penny to your name. I love you. I think I’ve loved you all my life.” She raised a wet hand, placing it over his heart. He felt that odd tingle he sometimes got when she touched him. “‘God grant this warrior’s aim be as true as his heart. Bend time and bring forward, his mate beside him, not apart,’” she said, moving her hands across his battle marks as if reading Braille. “That’s me. Not even time could separate us.”

“Don’t tell me you read my battle marks. No one can read battle marks.”

“Maybe something happened to yours in the time vault, like with your talisman.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my talisman. Destroying Druan proved that. It must have been Michael.”

“The warrior?” She frowned.

“The archangel.”

“As in the Archangel Michael?” Bree blinked. “That’s the Michael you were talking about?”

“He commands the warriors, gives us our orders.”

“You’re kidding! Michael’s my favorite angel.”

Most women had favorite books or dresses. She had favorite graves and angels. “He’s the reason I found you,” Faelan said. “I went to look for your earring, which I have here.” He patted his sporran. “Michael showed me that you were in the time vault.”

“Michael told you I was there?” She pulled in a quick breath. “He knows me… wait, does he kind of… glow?”

“Aye. He’s very bright.”

“He must be my shiny man, from my dreams. He was there when I was locked in the crypt.”

Faelan stared at her. “You saw Michael?”

“When I was a kid, in my dreams, or whatever they were, he told me I was destined to find something great. In the crypt, he told me my father had died, but he’d sent me another protector. He showed me your eyes. Then, you were there in one of my dreams with him. Druan was there too.”

“Damnation. You wrote a letter and hid it underneath the floorboard where I found the necklace.”

“Yes. But I didn’t remember any of this until Scotland. I guess I blocked it out after the crypt. Michael must be the one who told me what your symbols mean. I know what the symbols on the time vault say, too, or some of them. What lies within cannot be, until time has passed with the key.”

“How the…?” He didn’t often shiver, but he did now. She’d done things no one in the history of the clan had ever done. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then use those lips for something else and kiss me.”

She loved him. He’d figure the rest out later. He dropped to his knees beside the tub, as she’d done days ago. “Yesterday was my twenty-eighth birthday.”

“You’re not a warrior anymore?”

“We’re always warriors, but my duty is finished. I’m free to take my mate.” He leaned closer. “I think you owe me something,” he said, pressing his lips to hers.

“Birthday cake?” she asked, breathless.

“A wedding.” And if he needed any help reining in her reckless streak, he had a family of warriors to back him up.

“Is that a proposal?”

“Aye, it is. Tha gaol agam ort,” he whispered against her lips.

“Are you insulting me again?”

“No, lass, I’m saying I love you.”

She leaned back a bit. “Enough to let me take one teensy picture of the inside of the time vault—”

“Damnation,” he uttered, stopping her words with his mouth. It would take the whole clan to keep her out of harm’s way. “You need something to take your mind off time vaults.” He pulled off his socks and boots and stepped into the tub, kilt and all. He stood over her, water lapping at his knees.

“You’re going to get wet.” She lifted the edge of his kilt, holding it above the water, and peeked underneath. “Oh, my.”

“Take my hand.”

Bree dropped his kilt and took his outstretched hand.

He looked into deep green eyes that he needed more than he needed air to breathe. “I, Faelan Connor, born of the Connor Clan, offer you, Bree Kirkland, my hand in marriage, my heart in love, my sword in protection, and my soul forever. Will you have me as your mate?”

She blinked, eyes sparkling like emeralds, then she smiled, and he knew he’d found his way home. “Yes. I’ll have you.”

“This is the vow a warrior makes when he takes his mate. It’s a separate ceremony, kind of like a handfasting. So consider yourself married… wife, with God as our witness until we can get to a church. Then I’ll say the vow before a priest and the whole bloody world.”

He grinned, stripped off his sporran and kilt, and sat facing her in the huge tub. Some things about this century were damned fine. She squeaked as he gently shifted her, pulling her onto his lap. “This is what I wanted to do the first time,” he said, lowering his head. “Forget cake. I’ll have you.”

***

“You’re sure about this, lass?” Sean’s eyes crinkled as the bagpipes played in the background. “We’re a strange lot.”

“I’ve been accused of being strange a time or two, myself, but I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be,” Bree said, gazing at the lovely old chapel on the grounds of Connor Castle in Scotland. The place was filled with warriors, many who’d helped battle Jared—Druan—and many who just wanted a glimpse of the Mighty Faelan in the flesh. How the clan had put a wedding together so quickly was a miracle. They could become wedding planners if they got tired of being warriors.

“Hold still,” Anna said, tucking another strand of Bree’s hair inside the wispy veil. “Isn’t she the most beautiful bride, Sorcha?”

Sorcha tilted her fiery head and studied Bree’s flowing, white gown with the small square of Connor clan tartan pinned at her shoulder and her dark hair knotted high. An impish grin lit Sorcha’s face. “Ronan says she is.”

“Ronan’s going to get himself killed,” Anna said, rolling her eyes.

Bree was enjoying her friendship with the female warriors, even Sorcha, who’d turned out to be not so bad. With so much of her time spent chasing dreams, Bree hadn’t had many girlfriends.

“Wait. Your father’s necklace.” Orla fastened the repaired necklace around Bree’s neck as Ronan walked through the door.

“If you don’t get this show on the road, that soon-to-be husband of yours is likely to come back here and carry you to the altar. He’s making the guests nervous with his pacing.”

“He’s waited more than a hundred and fifty years,” Sean muttered under his breath, adjusting his kilt. “He can wait a minute more.”

Ronan eyed Bree head to toe and lifted a dark, sexy eyebrow. “You could elope with me. I’m a lot younger—ouch,” he said, as Anna swatted him with her bouquet. He stole a kiss from Bree and grinned. “Come on, Orla, I’ll escort you to your seat.”

“Wait. You need something from your mother, too,” Orla said, her voice choked. She slid a tiny pearl bracelet onto Bree’s wrist, clasping her hand for several seconds.

“It’s beautiful, Mom. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

Orla looked away. “Hurry now, it’s time,” she said, taking Ronan’s arm.

The bagpiper started a different tune, and Sorcha took a deep breath. “Ready, everyone? Here we go,” she said, stepping inside. Anna followed, and when “Highland Wedding” began to play, Sean and Bree stepped up to the door. Sean had offered to give her away, since Peter was tied up with a rash of strange murders.

Bree stepped inside, blind to the smiling faces turned toward her, as she searched for him. Her breath caught. His hair was pulled back, highlighting his stunning face. He wore a white shirt, a kilt, waistcoat, and jacket, as did his groomsmen, Ronan, who stood next to him grinning like a wolf, and Duncan, his gaze only for Bree’s red-haired bridesmaid. Bree moved down the aisle and took Faelan’s outstretched hand, feeling his fingers clasp hers. “I love you,” he whispered, dark eyes brimming with passion, as the minister began to speak.

After the vows had been spoken and Faelan had slipped a ring on Bree’s finger, the ring his father had given his mother more than a century and a half before, the minister turned to Faelan. “And now, young man, you may kiss your bride.”

Young, Bree thought. If only he knew. Faelan smiled, and her knees went weak. His head lowered, and her stomach rolled. An odd time for morning sickness to start. Faelan didn’t even know. The feeling came again, stronger this time, and her vision began to blur. Faelan’s grip tightened on her arm and his smile faltered. Behind him, Ronan and Duncan frowned. The floor wavered, and the faces disappeared.

A man appeared before her, his auburn hair streaked with silver. He ran one long claw over the yellowed pages of an open book. She could feel his longing for it, his lust. Bree shook her head, and the vision receded. She saw Faelan looking down at her, worry marring his handsome face.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

Bree pushed the vision aside, refusing to let anything ruin this day. She touched her stomach and gave him a secret smile. Slipping the hand holding her bouquet around his neck, she pulled his lips to hers. “As long as I’m with you.”

Her warrior. Her Romeo. Her mate.