Awaken the Highland Warrior

by Anita Clenney

  “And some don’t know when to mind their own business,” Sorcha fired back.

  It seemed Bree’s penchant for boldness wasn’t unique. “In my day, women were to be cherished and protected,” Faelan said.

  “You can protect our backs while we fight alongside you and cherish us when we defeat the enemy.”

  Damnation. What had happened to the sane world he’d left behind where women minded hearth and home?

  “So women can be warriors and Watchers now?” Bree asked with a smug look.

  Like a female warrior wasn’t ludicrous enough.

  “Aye, but only one or the other. Never both,” Sean said.

  “Isn’t Sorcha a Watcher?” Bree asked. “She has dreams.”

  “Warriors often have dreams as well.”

  “Would Angus have brought a time vault?” Faelan asked. “I found one in the cellar of the chapel next to the graveyard.”

  Bree choked on her wine. “My chapel? There’s a time vault in my chapel? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t want—”

  “I know. You didn’t want to worry me. There are demons running around my backyard trying to kill me. After all that’s happened, I can’t believe you would keep this from me. It’s my chapel.” Her eyes were sharp as dirks, making him long for the days when the women would’ve been in the kitchen cooking. “Wait. The chapel doesn’t have a cellar.”

  “Aye, it does. The steps were behind the wall that collapsed.”

  “I have a hidden cellar?” Her eyes sparkled with excitement, momentarily dousing her anger.

  “The wall that hid the entrance was old, but I figured there might be another way into the cellar, something a warrior could’ve used recently.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bree said. “But I didn’t know about the hidden door, either. Grandma never mentioned it. Isabel did say something in the journal about someone hiding slaves. I wonder if someone was using the cellar as part of the Underground Railroad.”

  “If so, there could be a tunnel. Would your mother know?” Faelan asked.

  “I’ll check with her.”

  “A warrior from Canada was supposed to arrive a few days ago to help Sorcha and Angus,” Sean said, “but we haven’t heard from him yet. I suppose he or Angus could have brought a time vault and hid it after the wall collapsed.”

  “Is this Austin the one who helped Sorcha last year?” Duncan asked, frowning.

  Sorcha bristled. “Stop acting like a Neanderthal, cousin. You’re not my bloody bodyguard.”

  Duncan cursed and stormed out, letting the door slam behind him. A few in the room chuckled, but most paid no attention.

  Faelan hid a grin and wondered if Tavis had also risen from his grave.

  “I think Angus would have told us if he needed a time vault,” Sean mused. “Same for Austin.”

  “If Druan’s been reassigned, another warrior could have brought it for him.”

  Sean shook his head. “I think we would have heard if an ancient demon had been assigned. Was there a key to this time vault?”

  “No key. And no sign of another warrior.” Could it be the archeologist? How long had Bree known him?

  “Maybe the time vault was for Tristol, Malek, or Voltar,” Bree said.

  Sean looked puzzled. “The demons of old?”

  “They rode with Druan that night,” Faelan said.

  A pall fell over the room. “You’re sure, lad?” Sean asked, alarmed.

  “I’m sure.” Other than Druan, Faelan hadn’t seen the ancient demons’ human forms. They protected that knowledge like the warriors protected their talismans and time vaults. But there wasn’t a warrior alive, at least in Faelan’s day, who hadn’t heard the stories from his father and seen clan sketches of the demons of old in their natural forms.

  “That’s disturbing, it is,” Sean said, the wrinkles in his forehead growing deeper.

  “I think they were helping Druan with the war. I don’t think they knew about the disease, Druan’s virus. Tristol was angry when I confronted Druan about it.”

  “Too bad Tristol didn’t kill Druan for us. I’d have paid to see that fight.” Sorcha lifted her glass to blood-red lips.

  “There’ve been rumors about the horror those four have wrought in the past, but they haven’t been spotted this century,” Sean said. “We’d hoped some of them had died.”

  “I’m afraid we have more to worry about than ancient demons,” Faelan said. “Druan’s castle is an exact duplicate of this one.”

  The room fell silent again, then everyone began to whisper.

  Sean’s voice rose out of the din. “You’ve seen it?”

  “We both have,” Faelan said, motioning to Bree. “In fact, we have a map of the inside. The only differences are some of the secret passages.”

  “Could Druan have seen this place?” Brodie asked.

  “Not likely, or he would’ve tried to destroy it,” Faelan said.

  “Maybe there was a traitor,” Sorcha said, holding Faelan’s gaze.

  “Even more puzzling, the castle is cloaked by some sort of spell.”

  Tomas frowned. “Cloaked?”

  “It’s invisible. That must be how he’s stayed hidden. I searched the area before. There was no sign of his lair.”

  “What do you mean it’s invisible?” Bree asked. “The castle was right there.”

  “You saw it, lass?” Sean asked, shocked.

  “Of course. You didn’t?” she asked Faelan.

  He shook his head. “All I saw was a field and trees. I found where you’d hidden your car, and I walked across the road, right into a tree.”

  “But how—”

  Further speculation was interrupted as Coira announced another group of warriors arriving. For hours the festivities continued, everyone smiling and hugging, bombarding Faelan with questions, comparing the current world with the one he’d known, whispering about ancient demons, invisible castles, and the American Civil War until he ached for quiet.

  “Would you mind if I spoke to Bree?” he asked, interrupting her conversation with Sean.

  “What do you want?” She was still upset.

  “I want to apologize for not telling you about the other time vault and the cloaking spell. I didn’t want to—”

  She held her hand up, her face darkening. “Don’t say it.”

  “Sorry. This is a different world from the one I knew. In my time we took care of women, tried to make things easier for them. I don’t know what to do with you,” he said, studying her face. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Her expression softened, though her body still looked stiff as a corset. “I know you mean well, but I’m not a child. Don’t treat me like one. I don’t need another father.”

  Like a child? That was nowhere near how he wanted to treat her. After he made sure Brodie had grown bored with his wine tricks, Faelan slipped away from the noise and commotion. Alone, he wandered through the house reliving memories far older than they felt. The library still smelled like a warm fire on a cool night. He could close his eyes and see his family gathered around the hearth listening to one of his father’s wild tales of his warrior days, while Tavis and Ian poked at each other when no one was looking. The furniture had changed, and the kitchen had modern appliances like in Bree’s house, but even bigger, to feed all the warriors coming through. The solid oak table was still there, with Ian’s initials carved under the edge.

  Several bedrooms had been converted into fancy bathrooms like Bree’s. His mother would’ve loved it. His father too, who’d love to sing in the tub, his voice booming so loud they could hear him outside. In Faelan’s time, most of the bedrooms had tubs for bathing, but the water had to be carried by hand. One room had a basin and a water closet of sorts, but most of the time they used the privy out back.

  He paused when he reached the bedroom he’d shared with his brothers, running a hand over the gouge in the wooden door. Tavis had thrown a knife at Ian for teasing him about Marna,
the blacksmith’s daughter, who always gave Tavis extra sweeties. When their father saw the gouge, Faelan claimed he’d used the door for target practice, but his father wasn’t fooled, and all three of them had gotten their hides tanned.

  Faelan opened the door, wondering if any of his things had survived. His mom had kept the room unchanged, even after he and his brothers moved out. It was painted yellow now. The curtains and quilt were different, but his old iron bed was the same. He opened the closet. None of his belongings were here. Slipping off his boots, he lay on the bed that was too small. He pulled the smooth stone from his pocket, rubbing his thumb over it as the distant sounds of laughter faded and exhaustion brought sleep.

  The wind whipped his hair against his face as Faelan galloped ahead of the storm. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Tavis on the hill closing in, but Ian hadn’t caught up. Faelan nudged Nandor to go faster. The lucky stone would be his. A tree branch smacked his chest, wiping the triumph from his face. He righted himself as Tavis sped ahead with a victory cry.

  “The stone’s mine,” Tavis shouted over the wind.

  Faelan jumped to the ground outside the stables, leading Nandor inside, while Tavis held the door.

  “Where’s Ian?” Faelan asked, looking into the storm.

  “I thought he’d catch up by the burn.” Tavis put his horse in the stall as Faelan watched from the open door for a sign of their brother. Two more crashes sounded. Faelan swung onto Nandor’s back. “You’re not going back out there,” Tavis said, glancing at the sky.

  The next flash brought an image of a tiny casket being lowered into the ground. “I have to.”

  “You’re daft. It’s lightning like the devil out there. We’ll get Father. Ian probably saw the storm coming and went to the cabin.”

  “I can’t leave him out there. He’s my responsibility. I’m the oldest.”

  “It’s not your fault, Faelan,” Tavis said, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about Ian. “You tried to save him. I’m the one who didn’t get there in time. I’m getting Father—”

  “No,” Faelan shouted. “I’ll take care of it.” He rode out the open door into the storm, leaving Tavis frowning after him.

  Nandor’s hoofs splattered mud as they raced across the back field. Faelan wished he’d never suggested this game. He wasn’t a kid anymore. In two years, he would start training. He should’ve known better, read the weather beforehand. Faelan rounded the corner of the orchard and stopped.

  Ian lay face down in the dirt, his horse nowhere to be seen. Faelan jumped off Nandor and sprinted to his brother. “Ian?” He crouched over him, but Ian didn’t move. Faelan pulled Ian’s kilt over his backside and rolled him over, putting his ear to Ian’s chest. His heartbeat was strong. “Come on, Ian.” Faelan shook his brother, but he didn’t move. A horse whinnied behind him. He turned and saw Tavis jump from his horse and run toward them. He should have known Tavis would never stay behind. “His horse must have thrown him,” Faelan said.

  Tavis nodded.

  Together they carried Ian to where Nandor stood. Faelan whistled, and the young stallion straightened his forelegs and leaned down. They laid Ian across Nandor’s back, and Faelan jumped on behind him, adjusting Ian so he was leaning back in Faelan’s arms. Tavis mounted, and they hurried home. Faelan gripped his brother’s lanky body as he urged Nandor to go faster.

  Ian roused in sight of the house. He tried to move, but Faelan held him still.

  “Hold on. We’re almost home.” His father ran across the field toward them, his face black as the sky.

  “What happened?” he yelled as they lifted a grumbling Ian off the horse.

  “He fell.”

  “You should’ve come for me. Why do you try to do everything yourself? There’s no shame in asking for help, lad. You’re not God. All we need is for your mother to lose another son.”

  Faelan opened his eyes and looked at his bedroom. Loneliness settled like a heavy fog. He squeezed the stone he held. He should’ve given it to Tavis. He’d won it fair and square.

  Faelan stuck the stone in his pocket and shoved his feet into his boots. Crossing to the small balcony, he climbed over and dropped to the ground, landing lightly, like a cat, almost hitting a huge elderberry bush in the same place where he’d helped his mother plant hers. He sprang up and ran. Whoever was watching the cameras would see him, but he needed space to think. He filled his lungs with the night air, thick with memories, and felt the breath of others who’d walked here and gone.

  He moved forward without thinking, letting his feet lead the way. He passed the stables, the trees he’d climbed as a lad, fields where he’d raced with Nandor, and he headed for the knoll. The crumbling wall stood as it had for centuries. Faelan swallowed the lump in his throat as he stepped inside. The markers stood in silence, their occupants undisturbed by evil or wind or cold.

  He moved between the headstones, past grandparents and great-grandparents, generations of Connors who slept here. There hadn’t been so many graves then. In the corner, he found them, their markers stained with age. Ian dead in 1863. Beside him were his wife and three sons, two of them born on the same day. Twins. Then Alana, who’d lived until 1925, and her husband. A small headstone lay alongside them.

  Faelan, beloved son of Alana and Robert Nottingham, eleven months old.

  Alana had named a son after him. Faelan’s throat tightened. Beside the tiny grave were two more sons and three daughters born to his sister. Next was Tavis’s marker. Dead in 1860, buried at sea, the year Faelan had been locked in the time vault. Why hadn’t they told him? Behind his brothers’ and sister’s graves, sheltered under an old tree, Faelan found his father and mother. Aiden and Lena Connor. His mother had lived until age fifty-three. His father had died the same year as Tavis. Between his parents lay Liam’s small grave.

  Memories welled like a dam and broke free. A giggling Alana, smelling of apples and sunshine. His brothers in swordplay as their father corrected their form. Dirt smudges on his mother’s cheery face as he helped her plant the elderberry bush. Liam, his limp body drenched with water when they pulled him from the well. Gone. They were all gone.

  He thought about how many others had grieved for a father or brother or son who’d died in a war he failed to stop. A wife mourning a husband who’d never return. A mother weeping over a son who’d died far too young. Another who’d killed his brother for a cause that was nothing more than a distraction for Druan. Families destroyed, lives ruined, because he hadn’t stopped Druan in time. The lonely wail of a dog pulled Faelan’s pain inside out. He moved back to where his brothers lay and placed the white stone on Tavis’s grave.

  Chapter 24

  Bree reached for the telephone and let out a delicate belch. The haggis. Her stomach rolled. She’d been too distracted watching Faelan’s reunion with his family—and all those men wearing kilts—to notice what was on the plate Brodie handed her. Maybe she just dreaded the thought of facing all those warriors and admitting she’d almost married an ancient demon. Or it could have been the wine. She’d had only one glass, but it felt like four. Faelan had disappeared earlier. It was some consolation that she’d seen Sorcha wrapped around another man downstairs, but with Sorcha’s flirting and Faelan’s out-of-control lust, it was a matter of time. If Duncan didn’t kill Sorcha first. He obviously saw something in the witch that no one else did.

  Laughter drifted from below as Bree dialed her mother’s number. Coira had told Bree to make use of the house phone. Her mother didn’t answer. She must be out with Sandy. Bree checked her voice mail next. There was one message.

  “Bree, this is Peter. Thanks for letting me know you’re out of town. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m having trouble tracing your friend’s name. I don’t know how long you plan to be away, but longer might be better. We still haven’t caught the killer. This case is getting stranger by the minute.”

  She’d call him when she got back. Bree went upstairs to the room they’d given her, a few do
ors down from Faelan’s. She stepped onto the balcony overlooking the fields and stables at the back of the castle, her thoughts on Sorcha and Faelan and dead bodies and how she could get Peter off Faelan’s tail. The night was cool, the moon bright, but not full. A hill rose in the distance, and Bree saw a stone wall enclosing a graveyard.

  Her aching stomach forgotten, she left the room and hurried downstairs, smiling at two men in kilts she passed in the hall. She’d met them earlier but couldn’t remember their names. Outside, she wove her way through the cars parked in the driveway and made her way up the hill. Hugging her arms against the night air, she approached the crumbling wall. She loved cemeteries. She was some distance away when she spotted a figure near the back of the graveyard. Her heart lurched for a second, then she saw it was a man standing underneath an old tree. He moved from grave to grave, head bowed, stopping to touch each one. She watched as he dropped to his knees and leaned his head against a stone. Faelan had found his family.

  Her eyes stung. She wanted to go to him, but was afraid to intrude on his grief. Instead, she turned away, hurrying back to the castle, her face wet for him. She crawled into bed and cried for his pain. Then she cried for herself, her father, her grandmother, her twin, and her poor Aunt Layla, who died too young.

  Bree woke when the covers lifted and the mattress dipped. Her nose told her who it was before a masculine leg brushed hers. Faelan. She lay still as he slid closer and slipped both arms around her, cradling her against his warm body. He didn’t speak, just held her. Did he want to sleep next to her again? She wasn’t sure it would be enough for her tonight. Several heartbeats later, she felt a prod against her backside and started to turn, but he held her in place. He slid his hand under the soft cotton of her top, filling his hand with her breast.

  “I need you,” he whispered, nudging her hair aside, touching his lips to her neck. His hand moved to the other breast and then lower, dipping inside her pajamas, until with an impatient sigh, he made them disappear.

  With her back still facing him, he slid a hand under her thigh and pulled her leg up. She bent one knee, giving his fingers the access they desired. For minutes she hovered between two worlds, then she felt the tip of him nudging for entry.