Awaken the Highland Warrior

“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.