He spun back toward the burial vault. “What year is this?”

She told him, watching as the color drained from his face.

“No.” He rubbed his hands across his forehead, leaving a streak of blood. “A hundred and fifty years.” The words were barely a whisper. Clasping his chest, he moved toward the open door of the crypt. He didn’t move like a normal man; he flowed, like water over rocks in a stream. As if each muscle moved in perfect harmony with the others.

“It’s still here,” he said, staring into the night.

“What’s still here?” Before the question left her mouth, an image of charred earth, smoking and desolate, reared up like a serpent from a forgotten dream. One of her premonitions? She was still reeling when he walked back to where she stood.

“How did you find me?” he asked, his voice gruff again.

For someone who’d just been freed, he wasn’t very gracious. “I followed the map. Who are you? How did you get inside that chest?”

“Chest?” He looked at the burial vault. “I can’t remember,” he said, licking his lower lip.

He was lying. Bree knew it as surely as she knew she wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t dead. This man wasn’t a ghost. He was a thief. He’d probably stolen her treasure when she wasn’t watching. He couldn’t have locked himself inside, which meant someone had left him for dead. An accomplice? Or was it a joke? He was wearing a kilt.

“Where’s my treasure?” she demanded. She’d searched too long to let anyone steal it.

He swayed and grabbed the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“The time vault… I need to lie down.”

Time vault? Did he mean the burial vault? “Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?” Thief or not, she couldn’t refuse him help if he was injured.