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?”