“No.” He grabbed her arm, and she felt the strength held in check, although he looked ready to drop. “You can’t tell anyone about me.”
Was he hiding from the person who had locked him in the chest? She’d seen a man in the woods several days ago and a shadow in the graveyard earlier tonight. Then there was the shriek last night that made her skin feel like it had turned inside out.
He leaned his head against the stone. “Need rest.”
Rest? Where? If she called the police she’d have to tell them about her treasure, and she couldn’t take him inside. He didn’t look capable of walking, much less hurting anyone, but that dagger proved he was dangerous.
The man’s eyes closed and his face paled. She’d made countless bad judgment calls in her life, and this might be the worst, but she couldn’t let him pass out here, and she wasn’t about to lose her treasure. The thief must know where it was hidden or who’d taken it.
“Let’s get you inside the house.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken a risk. Besides, her friend Jared should be back from his trip soon. He could give her a hand. Bree retrieved the lantern and carried it back to where the man waited. He raised his head, giving her the first grateful look since she’d freed him. “Do you need help?”
He nodded stiffly, his expression grim.
She moved closer, and he dropped an arm over her shoulders, leaning his body into hers. He smelled like dirt and leather and rain. A feeling settled in her chest, like recognition, and she wondered if she was dreaming. She put her arm around his waist. Solid. Real. Wet? How had he gotten wet? It hadn’t rained in weeks.
“Wait,” he whispered. “The time vault. I have to cover it… can’t leave the key.”
Why? Questions bombarded her, but she left him leaning against the wall and approached the burial vault. Bree reached for the lid, and her breath caught when she saw the inside of the chest. It was green, like the stones on the outside, but there was no time to explore. She’d have to come back later. She closed the lid and pulled the disk from the lock. Nausea rose in her throat as the metal grew hot in her hand. She wanted to hide the disk, bury it where it would never be found.
After the queasiness subsided, she struggled with the stone cover, then he was there, pulling with her. The lid scraped as it dropped into place. If this was his weakened state, she couldn’t imagine him full strength. She was crazy to consider taking him inside, but if he was going to kill her, he would’ve already done it when he had the dagger against her jugular vein. He not only hadn’t hurt her, he’d even seemed concerned about her fall. Or was she making excuses because the mystery of a lifetime stretched before her, beckoning like the yellow brick road?
He leaned against the vault, and a trickle of water dripped from his hair onto his face. There was a knot on the back of his head. “How did you get hurt?” she asked.
“I don’t remember.”
The knot looked big enough to cause amnesia. Maybe he wasn’t lying.
He held out his hand. “Give me the key.”
“The key?” She looked at the antique disk that had hung on her great-great-grandmother’s mantel for generations. “It’s mine.”
“Please.”
She didn’t know why he wanted it, but judging from the pallor of his face, if they didn’t get inside soon, she’d have to drag him or call for help. She could get her disk back after he fell asleep. He put it in the worn, leather pouch hanging over his groin, a sporran. She’d never seen a real man wear one, but then again, she’d never seen a real man in a kilt.
He slipped his arm around her shoulders again, and they staggered into the still September night. No frogs croaked or crickets chirped. No owl’s eerie call. A stab of unease prickled her spine at the lack of sound. They were both panting by the time they made it to her back porch. Having him pressed to her side, body to body, was doing strange things to her senses, and his scent made her long for something she didn’t understand. She opened the back door, and they moved into the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat? Water?”
“No. Lie down.” He slumped lower, his chin bumping the top of her head.
Bree grabbed the arm he’d slung around her shoulders to keep him from sliding to the floor and debated where to put him. The house had eight bedrooms, but only one assembled bed and a single set of sheets. She hadn’t replaced the ones she’d tossed out when she moved in. Living in a dead person’s house hadn’t bothered her, nor had sleeping in a dead person’s bed. Sleeping on a dead person’s sheets—even Grandma Emily’s—that, Bree couldn’t handle.
And here she was with a man she’d pulled out of a crypt draped around her like a shawl. Her mother was right, Bree had missed normal by light years.
She guided him to her bedroom, thankful it was on the first floor and that her mother lived half a dozen states away. She nudged on the light switch with her nose, dragged him across her hand-loomed rug, and dropped him onto the bed. “What’s your name?”
“Faelan,” he said and fell backwards like a downed tree.
Faelan? Unusual name. Bree shook his arm. “What happened to the treasure in the chest?”
His eyelids fluttered. “Not… treasure… chest.”
“Not a treasure chest? What do you mean?”
If the box wasn’t a treasure chest and it wasn’t a casket, what was it?
Chapter 2
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.
