When Fiona opened her eyes, she had a massive headache. Disoriented, she sat up, looking around at the dark cellar, momentarily forgetting where she was or how she'd gotten here.

And then it all came back to her. The mysterious ruins of the village, the woman who'd been following her, Fiona chasing her into the pits of the castle, the tug of wind, and the sensation of falling.

Fiona climbed to her feet, clutching her head. What had caused that wind? Maybe there'd been a sudden storm, and the rush of wind had caused her fall. Whatever had happened, she needed Ibuprofen, water, and a long nap back in her room at the bed-and-breakfast. If she saw that woman again, she'd just have to contact the authorities.

Though the cellar was still dark, Fiona could now see enough to make out the stairs up ahead. She blinked, taking in the cellar. It looked slightly different. It was larger, with no signs of decay. In fact, she saw barrels of wine and sacks of flour stacked in the far corner. Had someone been here?

Shaken, she made her way to the stairs, starting to ascend, but stilled when she heard two male voices.

"I’m telling ye, Ronan, they’re up tae something. I doonae trust them.”

“Yer father’s wise, he wouldn’t let Dughall fool him. Be happy with the lass, she’s bonnie and will give ye strong sons—"

“’Tis not about Magaidh, 'tis about protecting the clan.”

Fiona had heard thick, almost indiscernible Scottish accents since she'd arrived, but these sounded . . . different. Though she could understand them—barely—it was almost like they were speaking another language.

Other people are here, Fiona realized in a daze. When she’d arrived, the village had been a ghost town.

She climbed the stairs and froze when she reached the top.

Two handsome men stood in the corridor. They wore medieval-looking clothes—dark tunics and green plaid-patterned kilts. One was tall with brown hair, golden eyes, and strong angular features.

But it was the one who stood closest to her that made her throat go dry. He was tall, well over six feet, with dark wavy hair, cerulean blue eyes, and a finely chiseled jaw dotted with faint stubble. He was ridiculously, painfully gorgeous. A rush of heat spiraled through her, and she swallowed.

"Ah—sorry,” she said, when she was able to speak. Maybe this was a historical reenactment? One of her guides had told her such reenactments took place in some castles throughout the country. “I—sorry to interrupt. I just need to get to my car.”

She started to step forward, but the Gorgeous Scot intercepted her, his eyes narrowed. His gaze swept over her from head to toe, taking in her disheveled brown hair and her navy blue maxi dress, and Fiona flushed at his appraisal. His eyes darkened with something she couldn't identify before he met her gaze again.

“Who are ye, lass?” he demanded. “A Sassenach spy? One of Dughall’s whores here tae spy on me?”

Fiona gasped, anger coursing through her. Who the hell was this guy—and what was this? If this was a reenactment, he was taking it way too far.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I was just leaving,” she snapped, moving around him, but he again blocked her path.

“Not ’til ye tell us who ye are,” the Gorgeous Scot demanded.

“I—I don’t have to,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, though she barely reached his broad shoulders. She glared at him. “Now—I don’t know what type of reenactment this is, but I'm leaving and you’re going to get the hell out of my way!”

“The lass has a mouth on her,” said the other handsome Scot, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“'Tis no cause for laughter, Ronan,” the Gorgeous Scot grumbled. “If Dughall sent a spy—"

“Let’s bring her tae yer father. He can ask—"

“No. If she’s a spy, I want tae question her,” the Gorgeous Scot's eyes sparked dangerously, and she felt another inappropriate rush of desire.

Fiona swallowed hard. Spy? They thought she was some sort of spy? Her mind clawed through possibilities and reasons—maybe this was an interactive reenactment in which she had to play along. Maybe they were being filmed. She looked around for cameras, but there were none.

“Looking for Dughall’s backup, are ye, lass?” demanded the Gorgeous Scot. He stepped forward, and Fiona yelped as he swung her up into his arms, carrying her down the corridor.

“Eadan, what are ye—?” the other man demanded, exasperated.

“I’ll get my answers from the lass—alone.”

Now, Fiona's fear returned. She was pretty sure that in reenactments—even interactive ones—the actors weren’t allowed to touch the participants. She began to struggle in his grip.

“I didn’t sign up to be in this, OK? I found this town by chance. Show’s over. I just want to get back to my car.”

Eadan gave her a sharp look but kept walking. They went up a series of winding stairs; her struggles were useless against his strength. He kept her in his arms until they entered a massive room—a medieval chamber—that was the size of her one-bedroom apartment back in Chicago.

Fiona stumbled back as soon as he released her. She looked around, terrified. Where were the cameras? The other tourists?

“What are ye looking for, lass?” Eadan demanded. “Ye willnae find any of Dughall’s men here to save ye.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Fiona roared. “Who the hell is Dughall? Look—I—I don’t know what is going on, but I just want to go back to my car and get back to Inverness.”

“Inverness?” he hissed. “What business do ye have in Inverness?”

“I don’t want to be a part of this damned reenactment!” Fiona shouted, to whoever could hear. “I just want out!”

“Reenactment?” Eadan’s handsome brows knitted together in confusion. “What are ye on about, lass? And what type of gown is this? Ye’re almost naked. Even whores doonae put their wares on display like this.”

Fiona glared at him. He wasn’t going to drop the act. And whoever was holding this reenactment wasn’t ending it. Maybe she had to play along in order for it to end? She was certain that keeping a tourist hostage and forcing them to play along with a reenactment they didn’t sign up for was illegal, but if that's what it took to get the hell out of this castle—

Fiona stilled, her heart leaping into her throat. The castle. When she’d entered its courtyard, it had been in ruins. Now, from what she could tell, and from what she'd seen as Eadan carried her up the stairs, it was fully functional.

Again, her mind struggled to keep up. These men—these actors—must have moved her. It was disturbing—and definitely illegal—but whoever ran this reenactment had to have moved her. Her explanation for all of this was getting more far-fetched, but there was no other explanation.

“Trying tae come up with more lies, lass?” Eadan asked, his eyes narrowed.

“I—I got lost,” she stammered.

“Lost?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to come up with a lie that was as close to the truth as possible. If she had to play along to get out of this, so be it. “I—I'm not a whore, but a disgraced woman. I was betrothed to an Englishman who betrayed me. I—I fled from him and ended up here. I only hoped to hide in the cellar for a few days before continuing on my way.”

“Do ye think I’m a fool?” Eadan spat. “How did ye get in the castle?”

“I—I snuck inside. In the middle of the night. I’m—I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “Now, if you’ll just let me be on my way—"

“And where were ye headed?”

“To—to a nunnery. Jenloss Abbey, just east of here,” she stammered, reaching for any scrap of medieval history she could think of. That was where disgraced women went in medieval times—she hoped. She’d seen the name of the abbey in one of her maps and prayed it existed in this time. “It’s the only place that would take a fallen woman such as me.”

For the first time, a look of belief entered Eadan's eyes, and relief filled her. Now that she'd played along with their ridiculous scenario, would they let her go?

"If—if you would be obliged to provide escort," she continued, hoping she sounded authentic. "I'll just be on my way."

Eadan continued to study her, and for a moment she thought he’d acquiesce, but he shook his head. “Not sure I believe ye, lass.”

Fiona’s heart sank, and panic surged in her chest. They couldn’t keep her here against her will; it was kidnapping.

“I’ve had enough. If I’m not allowed to leave, I’m contacting the authorities as soon as this is all over,” she announced to whoever was listening, and started for the door. But Eadan didn’t budge.

“I’ll let ye leave. One day.”

“What do you mean, one day?” she gasped.

“Ye want tae leave, tae head to this . . . nunnery, aye?”

“Yes,” Fiona said, through gritted teeth. So he wasn't going to drop the act.

“Then I’ll help get ye there. But ye have tae do something for me first.”

Fiona stumbled back, her throat dry. He was the sexiest man she'd ever seen, but he was still a stranger, and if this was some type of weird sex thing—

“’Tis not what ye’re thinking, lass,” Eadan said with exasperation, taking in her panicked expression. “I’ll help ye leave . . . if ye pose as my bride.”