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,
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.
