“War?” Faelan asked, his voice hollow.
“The American Civil War.” If he wasn’t from this country, or had been locked in the time vault prior to 1861, he wouldn’t know about it. “With your memory loss, you probably don’t recall what a terrible time it was for this country. Brothers killing brothers. More than six hundred thousand soldiers died.”
He sat back in his chair, looking ill. “How long did it last?”
“From 1861 to 1865.” She knew everything there was to know about the Civil War. Her childhood obsession had become her passion. It was the reason she’d become a historian. “Shall I read more?”
He nodded, and she continued.“Today was one of the saddest I have known, watching McGowan’s son remove the bodies from the crypt. I could feel his grief. I would not admit it except in these pages, but I think even before McGowan arrived I sensed death. Perhaps it is the reason I wanted the disk for a good luck charm, something to ward off evil. I should have known those things don’t work. Frederick watches me as if I will have a nervous breakdown. I suspect he knows I’m reminded of my grandfather’s tragic, untimely death. He was also robbed and brutally killed. Father was a baby then, and according to his mother, barely escaped with his life. “Perhaps Frederick is right, and the pregnancy is making me emotional and restless. I am not the only one unable to sleep. Even as I write, I can see a lantern moving in the graveyard. Ghosts? Or McGowan’s son searching for his father’s treasure? I feel certain I have seen the son somewhere. I remember now—”
“The next page is missing,” Bree said. “I’d kill to know what Isabel remembered—”
A scream sounded outside.
Bree jumped to her feet, and the falling journal struck her plate, dumping the contents on her jeans before it hit the floor.
Chapter 5
Faelan grabbed the knife and lunged at Bree. She yelped, but he was there before she could jump clear, shielding her from the door. She tried to peer around broad shoulders, but all she could see was a muscular forearm and long, lean fingers gripping the blade. He’d put himself in front to protect her. She felt a quiver that had nothing to do with the horrible scream.
“Where’s my dirk?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Stay here,” he ordered. In three strides he was at the door. Whoever he was, he was used to being obeyed.
“What was that sound?” she asked, but he was already gone. She ran to the window and watched him move through the pale pre-dawn, one hand gripping the knife, the other clasped to his chest. He stopped and lowered his head, then trotted along the path like a bloodhound scenting a trail, as he disappeared into the woods.
What if he didn’t come back, just kept going? Bree jerked open the door and took off after him. She found him in the clearing near the dig, standing tall and motionless, like a valiant protector of an ancient Scottish realm.
“Did you see anything?” she asked, panting.
He whirled on her, his expression fierce, the kitchen knife still in his hand. “I told you to stay inside.”
She jumped back, alarmed, but she didn’t care what time he came from, she wasn’t his dog. “Excuse me?” Her glare was wasted.
His eyes scoured the forest like a predator, concentrating on one spot beyond the tree line, before moving back to the empty holes nearby. “What’s this?”
“It’s a dig. My friend is an archeologist. He thinks this was once an Iroquois settlement.”
Faelan frowned. “How long has he been digging?”
“A few months. He’s working from notes an old trapper left. Grandma opened the site to him before she died. She loved Native American history. He hasn’t found much, only some arrowheads and a beaded necklace.” Jared was going to kill her when he found out she’d gone treasure hunting without him.
Bree caught a glimpse of Faelan’s talisman as he moved closer to the holes. She’d feed him as much as he could eat, if he’d let her examine it. “Be careful,” she warned, when his foot neared the edge. “Those holes are dangerous.”
“These wee holes?”
“I sprained my ankle in that one.” She muttered to herself, “The same ankle I broke in the cave.”
He gave her a look that bordered on insulting. “What were you doing in a cave?”
He not only healed fast, he had ears like Superman. “Exploring.” She shuddered at the memory, running her hands through her hair. “Did you figure out what that sound was?”
“No,” he said, glancing at his dusty boot.
Bree saw a footprint in the dirt smeared with something… red?
Faelan nudged a rock, covering the print, and turned his attention back to the trees.
“Does this place seem familiar?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Do you get many trespassers?”
“Just campers,” she said. “There’s a campground a few miles through the woods. Every year a few of them get lost.” Several since she’d moved in. “I think I saw one last night.” She nodded toward his boot. “Is that blood?”
Faelan gripped her arm. “You saw someone last night? What did he look like?” His accent was stronger now, the brogue more distinct.
What did it matter, since he couldn’t remember anything? “I’m not sure it was even a man. It was dark outside.”
“Do you have a horse and carriage?”
“I have a Mustang—”
“It’ll do,” he said, pulling her across the grass, his longer legs forcing her to jog to keep up. His eyes never stopped scanning.
She wanted to ask what he was looking for, but she was almost certain she wouldn’t like his answer. “Where are we going?”
“We need to leave.”
“Why? Did you see something back there?”
He didn’t answer, just kept pulling her forward.
“I guess we could ride around the area, see if you remember anything.” While they were out, they could get extra sheets and get him some new clothes. Nothing would be open this early except Walmart, but if secrecy was so important, he was going to have to lose the kilt. Probably best. Knowing he was naked under it wasn’t doing her any good. “Let me change clothes and get my bag.”
“Do you have to change?” he asked, eyeing the glob of food on her jeans.
“I’m wearing jelly,” she said panting. “Can you slow down?”
He did, but not much. “Has this place been in your family long?”
“For generations,” she said, looking at the house coming into view, faded, yet grand, like an old woman who’d once been a beauty, and now only character remained. Like Grandma Emily. “My great-great-grandmother’s family owned the land. Her father gave it to her and Frederick, her husband, as a wedding gift. Frederick built the house for Isabel when she was only eighteen. The chapel was already here. A lot of my ancestors are buried in the graveyard. There was a village through the woods. This path was the road back then. My great-great-great-grandfather had a farmhouse not far from here. It burned down a long time ago.”
For a man whose movements were so smooth, the hesitation in his stride struck her as extraordinarily clumsy.