The road was a mucky minefield of horse manure, puddles, and uneven runnels in the mud. She marveled how she had to struggle to keep up with him, even though he didn’t have the easy gait of other men.

Breathless, Felicity caught up to his side, but before she could speak, he announced, “Here.”

She looked up to see an elaborate hand-painted sign reading: Jos. Pemberley and Sons ~ Millinery and Fine Dress Making for Ladies.

“Joseph Pemberley,” she read aloud. “You brought me to a . . . mill?”

“A milliner.” He chuckled. The sound was unexpected—low and husky, it sent goose bumps rippling across her skin. She’d gathered that laughter was a rarity for the man, and yet, she thought wistfully, it utterly transformed him.

“For hats, lass.”

“You’re going to buy me a hat?”

“Among other things.”

“Oh, fun.” And sexy, she thought, unable to identify the hooded look that clouded his features.

The shop was dim and cool, with a bustling shopkeeper straight out of a BBC movie.

As his gaze alighted on Felicity, though, a look of such comical distaste puckered his features, she had to bite back a giggle.

She forgot the old grump at once, though, when she spotted the tables topped with pile after pile of cloth. She gasped. There were lush swaths of jewel- toned velvet, delicate fabrics in pale colors, and bolts bearing thick stripes of colors in alternating shiny and matte textures.

“This is so—” She felt Rollo’s hand wrap firmly around her upper arm. Her heart gave a kick, even though the stern look on his face told her to quiet. “This is so exciting,” she finished in a stage whisper.

She surreptitiously ran her fingers over a luxurious pile of satin, cascading like a royal blue spill of water across a table near the front of the shop.

She heard a clipped hiss, and looked up to see the clothier eyeing her suspiciously.

Grabbing Rollo’s arm, she hastily spun to eye another table. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act. “I worked retail for years,” she whispered, “and this guy would’ve been so fired.”

“Easy, woman.” Momentarily switching his cane to his left hand, Rollo loosened the death grip she had on his upper arm.

“Can you get me something in that blue?” she asked him, pointing to the bright blue satin. “That is just totally—”

“Yes?” the shopkeeper asked at their backs.

“I’d like—” she began, but Rollo cut her off at once.

“The lady requires a dress.” The sharp edge to Rollo’s voice challenged the peevish old shopkeeper to just try and disagree.

Lady. Felicity beamed. The lady.

Looking as though he was holding his breath, the man eyed her dingy clothes and pulled a long looped stretch of twine from his coat.

“Measurements won’t be necessary,” Rollo said. “We’re in a hurry and require something ready-made.”

This time, the man didn’t even try to disguise his contempt. “I am a clothier, sir, and an expert tailor. I do not cater to a . . . ready-made clientele.”

“What is that, then?” Rollo pointed to a display in the window.

“Oh,” Felicity gasped. It was a frothy rose-colored confection on a dress form.

Total BBC movie.

There was thick gold stitching along the sleeves. Real gold, she realized. Fancy.

“That, sir, is not for sale.”

“Everything has a price.” His voice was steel, drawing Felicity’s gaze to him, and she saw the edge reflected in his eyes, cold and flat.

So intense.

It struck her that, though he might be talking about a dress, Rollo could be speaking to much more.

And deep too.

“How can you be certain it will even fit this . . . lady?”

The two men stared a challenge, and it was the shopkeeper who lost the battle. “Very well,” he said on a sharp exhale. “But this is highly irregular.”

As the man toddled over to remove the dress from the window, she frantically pulled Rollo to her. “How am I supposed to—”

The shopkeeper turned, the dress draped gingerly over his arm. Appalled, he stared at Felicity whispering in Rollo’s ear.

“She will surely require those . . . other garments . . . as befits a lady?” He eyed the coarse and slightly soiled dress she wore.

“Surely,” Rollo bit out, patting Felicity’s arm.

“And a farthingale as well, I presume?” Chin trembling, the man skimmed his eyes over her skirts.

“Not necessary.”

His eyes shot up. “Necessary, I think. With a dress such as this—”

“What’s a—?” she began in a furtive whisper.

“Not necessary.” Rollo peeled his lips back into a smile that looked something like a grimace. “I think the lady may be required to do some riding and so—”

“Riding?” the man sputtered. “Not in my gown.”

“Her gown now.” Rollo tossed a bag of coin onto the counter. “And if you’d be so kind, the lady will require a dressing room.”

“She”—the man looked from Rollo to Felicity and back again, clearly alarmed—“she will don it here?”

“Here?” she whispered urgently.

“It’s here or in the carriage,” he told her under his breath. Rollo nudged her to the back of the shop.

“Be so good as to shutter the place,” he called to the shopkeeper over his shoulder.

“Ohh,” she purred quietly. He was sending the shopkeeper from his very own shop. “So . . . alpha.”

The man began to protest, but a quick flick of Rollo’s eyes to the leather coin purse lying conspicuously on the counter silenced him.

“And do occupy yourself elsewhere,” Will ordered, indicating the door.

What was he planning? She shivered in anticipation.

“There’s a good man. We’ll let ourselves out.”

He guided her toward a screen in the back corner. Cranes of crimson lacquer held graceful poses atop a shining black background.

“Oh!” a little chirp of pleasure escaped her. She could do a sexy little striptease behind the exotic screen. Visions filled her head and brought a muzzy smile to her face.

Too bad the outfit she was about to remove was closer to a burlap sack than a silk negligee.

Though maybe . . .

“Don’t these come with bustiers or something? Can we get any other clothes while we’re—”

“Just dress yourself, lass,” he snapped, shooing her behind the screen. “You have no notion the danger we’re in. You’ve called enough attention to us as it is.”

“But . . .” Deflated, she stepped behind the screen. “I didn’t do anything.”

So much for saucily rolling off a pair of stockings and swinging them over her head.

Felicity heard the tap of his cane on the floor as Rollo walked from the dressing area. She’d been eyeing the cane since he’d gotten it, and the question burst from her lips before she could think twice. “What happened? To your legs, I mean.”

Unknotting the sash at her waist, she began to peel off the soiled clothing. “Were you hurt?”

He was silent for a moment. “Aye. You could say I’ve been hurt.”

She heard him breathing heavily, sounding something like a restlessly slumbering dragon.

She gave a dramatic pout behind the screen. She really couldn’t get a bead on the man.

It had been such a thrill—she’d made her wish, done her magic, and it had come true. She’d actually landed back in time—he’d said the year was sixteen-something—and been deposited with some Scottish hunk with a crazy Viking name.

He even believed her, which really was a sign. If someone were to plop into her life from out of nowhere, claiming to be from the future, she’d think he was nuttier than a fruitcake.

So why was he making this so difficult?

Time to try another tack.

She stood up on her tiptoes to pop her head over the screen. “Who are you running from anyway?”

Rollo’s eyes quickly flicked to her bare shoulders.

She was naked. He couldn’t see her, but he knew. Just on the other side of the screen, not four paces from him, this woman was bare. Utterly and completely naked but for what flesh would be concealed by that lovely, long, yellow hair.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Licking his lips, he made as if he were formulating something of import to say. What to say?

Her shoulders were pale and delicate, covered by that fine web of her hair, the color of sunlight.

He resolutely pinned her gaze with his. “Don’t you know where you are?”

“You said England. So, yeah, England.” She seemed to stand a little taller.

Her attempts at temper amused him.

Better amused than aroused. The thought gave him clarity.

“I am on the run from Cromwell. Who, by the way, would have my head on a stake for supper and your fine body on a pyre for dessert.”

Fine body? What was he doing speaking such phrases to her?

She’d caught the phrase too, and pink flushed along her skin like the blush of passion. He wondered if the color infused the rest of her body.

Rollo gave his head a shake.

He was not one for smooth dealings with women, his experience not extending beyond the sisters and wives in his extended circle.

If only he could have her fine body for dessert.

Rollo made a sound like a growl in his throat and turned to walk to the front of the shop. Would that he could do as other men and spin on his heel with haste and flair, but instead he shuffled forth.

“Wait.”

He stopped. Leaning on his cane, Rollo waited for her to finish. He kept his back to her, his hand jammed in his pocket. All these thoughts of Felicity’s naked flesh had him decidedly bothered.

“I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”

He heard the rustle of silk.

“I need you to help me,” she finally said. Her voice sounded muted, as if she spoke from under layers of fabric. “I don’t know how to put this thing on.”