Fiona tried to concentrate on chopping vegetables, but images from the passionate night she’d shared with Eadan filled her mind. His lips on her skin, their naked bodies fused together as he moved within her. She’d lain awake after he slipped from her room to avoid being seen in the morning, unable to stop herself from fantasizing about waking up next to him every morning.

Though she hadn’t been in 1390 for long, she didn’t feel as out of sorts as she had when she’d first arrived, and to her surprise, she hadn’t longed for the conveniences of the future that much. Yes, sometimes she missed the internet or her cell phone. But it was refreshing to spend time painting, or walking the castle grounds, or just conversing with Eadan.

The one thing she did miss from her time was Isabelle, and her heart tightened when she thought of how worried her friend must be. As soon as she could, she would try and figure out how to let her friend know she was all right. Could she send a letter through the portal, with the hope that some wayward tourist would stumble upon the village and get it to her?

But Fiona shook aside the thought. There was no need to do such a thing, because she would return to her own time herself, where she belonged, though a sliver of dread filled her at the thought.

“Careful, m’lady,” a hesitant voice said, and Fiona looked up. A young woman with strawberry blond hair and kind blue eyes, who couldn’t be older than nineteen or twenty, stood there, gesturing to the knife Fiona was holding.

She looked down, blinking. She’d had been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn’t realized how close her finger was to the blade.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Ah—wait,” she said hastily, before the young woman could step away. This was the first time a servant in the kitchen had spoken to her, unbidden.

Fiona had listened in on the servant’s conversations. It was hard to understand the thick Scottish brogues at first, but she’d now become accustomed to them and listened carefully to their discussions. This young woman, whose name was Sorcha, had a crush on one of the stable boys, but feared he wouldn’t return her affections.

Sorcha froze, looking petrified. Fiona smiled to put her at ease.

“Forgive me, but I’ve listened in on some of your conversations about Taran, the young man who works in the stables,” Fiona said in a low voice. “And . . . I think you should talk to him about how you feel. I—I also had a crush on a man who worked in the stables when I was younger.”

Fiona hated the lie, but she needed to ingratiate herself somehow. But she didn’t get the reaction she was hoping for. Sorcha flushed, lowering her gaze.

“I—I’m sorry, m’lady,” she said. “I ken I should be focusing on me work; I willnae speak of such matters while working, again.”

Fiona looked at her, gobsmacked. She knew for a fact that Eadan treated his servants with kindness; she’d seen him invite servants to sit at his side during suppers in the great hall and inquire about their families. His father, Bran, was also kind to them. She could only guess it was Magaidh who’d put the fear of God into these poor servants.

She looked around, noticing that another hush had fallen over the kitchen. The servants avoided her eyes, tending to their tasks.

Sighing, Fiona put down her knife and moved to the center of the kitchen. Enough was enough.

“Excuse me,” she said, waiting for everyone’s eyes to reluctantly fall on her. “I won’t be here for very long; I’m only working in the kitchens to earn my keep. I’m not your mistress—not really. Please talk freely among yourselves. I insist. Ailde, I’m glad your daughter is feeling better. I’ll ask the laird if he can have extra food sent to your home. Ros, I hope you can make it to the spring festival. Laise, I do hope your crops do better when the seasons change. If they don’t, I’m sure Eadan would be happy to help.”

She’d picked up these tidbits by listening in on their conversations and hoped they wouldn’t be affronted. For a moment, stunned silence filled the kitchens, with many of the servants looking at her with wide eyes. But to her relief, she saw many of them relax. A couple even gave her hesitant smiles.

Satisfied, she returned to her chopping table, where Sorcha remained, her eyes wide.

“As I was saying,” Fiona continued, “if I were you, I'd tell Taran how I felt.”

Sorcha’s astonished look faded and she blushed.

“What—what did ye do?” Sorcha asked.

“About what?”

“The lad you liked?”

A wave of relief washed over Fiona and she smiled. Sorcha was warming up to her.

“I never told him,” Fiona said. Unbidden, her thoughts went to Eadan, and her heart clenched. “He—he married someone else. I was brokenhearted. That’s why I urge you—tell him how you feel. Before it’s too late.”

Again, another image of Eadan popped into her mind. The way his eyes lit up when he laughed. The look of wonder on his face when she told him about the twenty-first century.

Did she feel more for Eadan than just desire? Did she more than care for him? At the thought, Fiona dropped the knife and drew a shaky breath. Sorcha hurried forward to pick it up, handing it to her.

“There’s a faster way to chop,” Sorcha said, giving her a helpful smile. “Here, let me help ye.”

After that day, the servants became more relaxed around her. Over the course of the next week, their discussions were less guarded. They were still very aware of her presence, and they never discussed Eadan nor the other nobles around her, but at least they no longer treated her like she was an evil queen.

Sorcha was the one who opened up to her the most. She learned that she was the only child of an elderly mother, and she was conflicted about her feelings for Taran, as it would be better for her to marry a man with better prospects. Fiona listened, careful not to impose her modern-day opinions, reminding herself that she was in another time. Soon, very soon, she hoped to ask Sorcha if she’d noticed any strange behavior among the other servants. But she’d have to bide her time.

Eadan continued to visit her chamber every night, and she looked forward to the time they spent together; he’d tell her about his duties as laird, his slow-moving investigation into Dughall and his missing steward, and she’d tell him about her time in the kitchens. He rarely asked her about her own time anymore, and she was glad. Discussing her own time was like highlighting the ticking clock over their time together, counting down until they’d go their separate ways. She tried not to focus too much on her growing feelings for Eadan, over feelings she knew that went far beyond desire. It was too painful to dwell on, so she pushed all thoughts of her deepening feelings aside.

But after another week passed, the pressure had intensified. Soon the deadline would be up and Eadan would have to send Fiona away and resume his betrothal to Magaidh—or risk war between the clans. But Eadan hadn’t come up with the proof needed to convince the nobles of his clan that Dughall was behind Naoghas’s disappearance.

“I think I should go talk to Magaidh,” Fiona said, when they’d returned to her chamber after supper late one evening.

“What? Are ye mad?” Eadan demanded, looking at her with disbelief.

“She hates me,” Fiona said, thinking aloud. “She could barely restrain herself the last time we spoke. I think she’ll slip and reveal something. Something you can use against Dughall.”

“Ye’ll not go tae Dughall’s manor,” Eadan snapped, not looking convinced by her argument. “’Tis dangerous and I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?” she snapped, hot anger rushing through her.

“I doonae care how things are in yer time, but here my word is law. I willnae have ye confronting Magaidh. I—I fear for ye, Fiona,” he said, his voice wavering, and her anger melted away when she saw the worry in his eyes. “Yer doing more than enough by making nice with the servants. I’ll handle Dughall—and Magaidh.”

* * *

But it turned out she didn't have to go see Magaidh. Magaidh came to see her.

A nervous-looking Una came to fetch her from the kitchens the next day, telling her she had a visitor.

"Who?" Fiona asked with surprise, taking off her apron as she followed Una out of the kitchens.

"Magaidh."

Fiona hesitated, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. Eadan was away from the castle with Ronan; otherwise, she'd have gone to him first.

She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. She could handle Magaidh on her own.

Magaidh was waiting in a large drawing room off to the side of the great hall. Her mouth tightened in dislike at the sight of Fiona, along with a look of surprise at her plain peasant dress.

“Hello, Fiona," Magaidh said. She spoke tightly as if each word were forced. "I've come tae apologize."

Fiona blinked, astonished. Magaidh didn't look conciliatory at all; hostility radiated off her in waves.

"Apologize?" Fiona echoed.

"I threatened ye. I ken ye're leaving soon, and ye have no intention of challenging me for Eadan. I wish to offer ye my kindness before ye left," Magaidh said stiffly.

Fiona studied her. The woman was lying through her teeth. What was she really here for?

"I accept your apology," Fiona said, trying to force warmth into her tone. “I—I hope you two find happiness.”

What if Eadan didn’t find the proof he needed, and he ended up marrying Magaidh after all? She knew he wanted peace for Clan Macleay more than anything. The thought of Magaidh marrying Eadan filled her with both jealousy and revulsion.

Fiona swallowed, lowering her gaze. When she looked back up, Magaidh's eyes had narrowed, her fists clenching at her sides.

“I knew it," Magaidh breathed. "Ye love him."

"Wh—what?" Fiona gasped.

"It makes ye sick, doesn't it? The thought of us together. I can see it in yer eyes. I’ve no doubt he's bedded ye—Eadan has needs like any other man. Not that I doonae have my own lovers."

A chill went through Fiona as Magaidh glared at her—not only at her own admission of having lovers, but the pure hatred that emanated from the woman.

"Why did you come here?" Fiona asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Magaidh let out a sharp breath, looking even more furious that she hadn't denied sleeping with Eadan. But what was the point of denying it? Magaidh wouldn't believe her and Fiona was terrible at keeping her feelings for Eadan hidden.

"Tae see if yer lying with my betrothed.”

“You are not betrothed,” Fiona said through clenched teeth. “It’s been put on hold since my arrival.”

Though she wasn’t legally wed to Eadan, she realized in the moment how real their faux marriage felt. How natural. It no longer felt like a charade, and a surge of possessiveness flowed through her. She wasn’t going to feign niceness with this woman anymore.

“Eadan is my husband,” she continued fiercely.

“I loved Eadan once,” Magaidh said, her green eyes flashing with fury. “’Til I realized he didnae care for me. Just ken—yer not the only lass Eadan has bedded. There will be many more—if there aren't already. Don't fool yerself intae thinking yer special tae him. I made that mistake once."

Magaidh stormed out, leaving Fiona alone, uncertainty paired with heartache settling over her like a great weight.